LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


FEATHEES 


FROM 


A   MOULTING   MUSE 


BY 


HENRY  J.   SARGENT, 

RESIDUAHY    LEGATEE     OF    THE    LATE    "WALTER 
ANONYM." 


"  Various,  that  the  mind 
Of  desultory  man,  studious  of  change 
And  pleased  with  novelty,  may  be  indulged." 


BOSTON: 

CROSBY,   NICHOLS,   AND    COMPANY, 

111    WASHINGTON    STREET. 

1854. 


tTBRARY 

EK1VERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
PAVJS 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1854,  by 

CROSBY,  NICHOLS,  AND  COMPANY, 
in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
METCALF  AND  COMPANY,  PRINTERS  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY. 


CONTENTS-. 


PAGE 

PREFATORY  .           .        -,.       -.•>••           •           •           •  1 

DEDICATORY.  —  TO   MY  WIFE 4 

'Ttypcu^a  6  -ye-ypa^a."  —  EXPLANATORY         .         .  6 

THE   RUINS   OF  PALENQUE 10 

A   FEW  MORE   LEFT       .......  26 

PAST   AWAY  !     . 29 

A  SOLILOQUY       . 32 

SONNET  TO  35 

SOUP!  ..........  37 

BONO           .       '••*           . 41 

SONNET   TO  .  43 


IV 


CONTENTS. 


INSPIRATION     .  .  .      -    n          .>.;,  s  ,  .  .  .45 

TRIUNE    EPIGRAM  . 49 

TO  A   VENERABLE   HURDT-GURDT  «.          ,  .  .         50 

|JENNT   LIND'S   GREETING   TO   AMERICA        ...  54 

SONNET 56 

THE   PRATER  OF   THE  PRAIRIE-FLOWER      ...  58 

SHADOWS  .      , 62 

SONNET   TO   .  65 

ROMANZA 67 

THE   FESTIVAL   OF   TEARS 72 

SONNET   TO  NOTHING .75 

TO   THE  BOBOLINK 77 

TO   .      A   CAROL      .  .  ....  .  .81 

THE   LILT'S  WOOING —.',.>- CL         84 

SONNET. —  OCEAN  TWILIGHT 92 

TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 94 

SONNET  TO  THE  DIV'L  .       .       .       .       .       .  '     .  98 

LINES  SUGGESTED  BT  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ATLANTIC, 

SUPPOSED  TO  HAVE  BEEN  LOST    .     .  ?    ^  .,,     .  100 

THE  SERENADE »..„...    , . -..  103 

"GOD  SAVE  THE  COMMONWEALTH!"    ...    -,     ..       .  105 

THE  PILOT  's  THERE!        .        .       .     v.     . .       .  107 

LINES   TO   AN  AEOLIAN   HARP  IN   MT  WINDOW        .  .110 


CONTENTS. 


MISS   SNOW  TO   HER  PERSECUTORS      .           .           .           .  113 

TO   BOSIO         v.      *.     ••  .       ' 117 

SONNET.  —  SUMMER  RAIN 121 

SEPARATION      .       •  «       »  i       *  • 123 

THE  FAIRY'S  INVOCATION  ..*••.-•        •        •        •  126 
A  PROVERB  AMENDED    .        .        .        .        .        .        .130 

TO   THE   HONORABLE ...  132 

APRIL     -\       -  .       -  >    •-''.       *  .       .'.-.-.  .  .135 

THE   LOVER'S   REVIEW  •'<•»•".   -"     i^""  ....  139 

SONNET      .•'.'..*.,".           .           .           .           .           .  144 

TO .     -.'.'-.«.        .         .  146 

LOVE  IS  THE  LIGHTEST       '*•*'• 148 

EPIGRAM        .    —  .       •«.      -.       -»'     •  w      '  .           .           .  150 

ART   THOU   READY?         -.       *.       •.       •.          .           .           .  151 

DREAMS           .*..».                      .           -          *          .           .  155 

TO   159 

JEALOUSY »           .  161 

THE    WARNING           .           .           .           .           .           .           .          .  164 

EGOTISM   OF   THE   LETTER   R                              .           .           .  166 

APOTHEOSIS      .           .           .^     • 169 

MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING        .           ....           .  172 

WAKE   FROM   THY   SLUMBERS  !          .  .  .  .  .178 

EPIGRAM  180 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


THE   GORED   HUNTER 
TO   . 


182 


TO   MY   STEEL   PEN  .  .       .    •    .....  193 

'      *  ^T 

STARS   AND   FLOWERS          „  *       ,  .        .«     r    -v      ...  •  196 

SONNET    TO   -  .  .  »  -:s-:>       «-*  i       «  •  201 

THE  FIRST  FLY,  —  AND  THE  MORAL       •.  >  .    ^*        .  203 

THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  BOUQUET       .       J      *       .       .  206 

GENTLY  !  GENTLY  !      .       ...       .       .       .  209 

LINES  ON  BRACKETT'S  GROUP,  "THE  SHIPWRECKED 

MOTHER  AND  CHILD"         .       .       .       .       .  211 

WHAT  'S  FAME  ?      ........  213 

ARE  YOU  A  "CONNOISSEUR"  IN  LOVE?    .       .       .  216 

THE    CHALLENGE       ........  219 

A  VALENTINE         .  .  .  .....  221 

REVERIES  .  i          •  ......  224 

"GOD  SAVE  THE  COMMONWEALTH!"  —  NO.  n.       .  227 

I   DREAMED   THAT   I   WAS   YOUNG   AGAIN  !      .  .  .  230 

THE   SEWING-BIRD   TO   HIS   TYRANT    .        ,'•        .*  .  234 

PROGRESS.  —  A  VISION  .  f          .  *  .  .  237 

SONNET.  —  TO   ZEPHYRUS     .  .  .        ,.          .  ^      j  240 

THE  BIRTH   OF   MUSIC      .  .  .    •      ^    .<  +       ,  .,.  :  •.  242 

"  ERIN   GO   BRAGH  !  M     .....         .^          »  246 

SONNET.  —  THOUGHT         .  .  .          .  .  .  250 


CONTENTS.  Vll 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY       .          .          .  252 

SONNET   TO   THE   MOON    .           .-.'•'.          .           .  255 

THE   TRUE   CREED          .           .           .         ^          V          .           .  257 

A   THOUGHT   OR  TWO        .          »          t  ,        .           .           .           .  261 

"  I   STILL  LIVE!"           .           .           .           .                      .           .  264 

VALE                                                                    268 


PREFATORY. 


THE  parent  on  his  new-born  heir 
Doth  look  with  love-enkindled  eyes ; 

Blinded,  he  finds  attraction  where 
The  world  would  but  despise. 

Some  ray  of  unreflected  light, 
Which  other  eyes  may  never  see, 

To  him  appears  a  herald  bright 
Of  that  which  is  to  be. 
i 


PREFATORY. 


Thus  look  I  on  this  child  of  rhyme, 
Though  insignificant,  mayhap, 

The  offspring  between  thought  and  time, 
Rocked  in  my  mental  lap. 

It  may  contain  full  many  a  line 

The  critic  stern  would  wish  to  blot ; 

His  soul  has  never  entered  mine,  — 
I  see  what  he  does  not ! 

Each  is  to  me  a  register, 

Wherein  the  smile  and  tear, 
The  sun  and  shadow  of  my  thought, 

Suggestively  appear. 

Though  valueless  to  him  they  seem, 
As  valueless  they  are,  no  doubt, 

He  cannot  rob  me  of  the  dream 
Which  shut  the  cold  world  out. 


PREFATORY. 


Each  was  a  free-will  offering 

To  the  Thalia  of  the  hour, 
Who  fanned  to  life,  with  restless  wing, 

The  intellectual  power. 

I  've  called  them  to  my  fold  again, 

To  prove  to  them  they  're  not  forsaken, 

To  reunite  the  broken  chain 
Whence  they  were  taken. 


DEDICATORY. 

TO    MY    WIFE.* 

DEAR  Maggie,  come  here !    Sit  thee  down  by 

my  side, 

I  need  a  protector,  a  patron,  a  friend  ! 
My  boat  is  adrift  on  a  critical  tide, 

And  Heaven  only  knows  how  the  voyage 
may  end. 

*  My  old  friend,  "  Walter  Anonym,"  would  have  dedicated 
this  little  book  "  To  the  Public,"  not  having,  I  suppose,  any 
wife  of  his  own.  He  was  very  easily  persuaded  (just  previous 
to  his  death),  however,  of  the  absurdity  of  his  proposition,  upon 
my  representation  that  it  would  be  deemed  by  the  printer  and 
publisher  a  most  satirical  compliment.  —  H.  J.  S. 


DEDICATORY. 


Or,  in  plain,  prosy  English,  my  desperate  Muse 
Would  dare,  with  your  sanction,  to  wander 

in  rhyme. 
Don't  laugh,  —  I  'm  in  earnest !     You  cannot 

refuse 
To  loan  me  your  altar  a  very  short  time. 

On  that  altar  unbribed,  for  your  lot  is  mine  own, 
And  one  fate,  as  one  faith,  doth  our  destiny 

prove, 

Are  these  garlands  of  fancy  confidingly  thrown, 
Not  asking  your  favor,  but   speaking  my 
love. 


u  Teypcxfra    6    -ye- 


EXPLANATORY. 

I  MIGHT  have  taken  loftier  flights, 

As  others  have,  alas  ! 
Who,  soaring  after  Tragedy, 

Dropped  headlong  into  Farce;  — 

Might  have  translated  foreign  tongues, 

(With  Dictionary's  aid,) 
And  thus  have  ranked  proportionate 

With  the  pretence  I  made;  — 


"  Teypacjxz   o  yeypa<paS 


Or  might  have  walked,  in  'broidered  robe, 

Through  mythologic  grove, 
And  given  you  the  Christian  names 

Of  Goddesses  above, 

Who  wantonly  have  smiled  on  me, 

Or  given  me  a  pat ; 
From  "  Blackwell's  "  quaint  "  Mythology  " 

I  could  have  stolen  that ;  — 

Might  have  indited  solid  things, 

Read  only  by  the  shelves ; 
Arabic  to  the  million, 

And  dead  letters  to  themselves ;  — 

Or  goaded  my  ambition 

Into  artificial  rage, 
A  scientific  lunatic, 

Requiring  no  cage. 


Teypcupa  o  yeypa<pa." 


I  might  have  spurred  old  "  Pegasus," 

The  Epic  stream  to  cross  ; 
And,  like  my  friend  "  Bellerophon," 

Have  tumbled  with  my  horse ;  — 

Might  have  off-scissored  my  "  moustache," 

Letting  my  hair  grow  long; 
A  locomotive  monument 

Of  dithyrambic  song. 

My  weakest  verse  would  have  been  puffed 

To  pronoun  I  satiety, 
Had  I  but  once  the  candle  snuffed 

For  the  «  Mutual  A.  Society." 

But  I  have  travelled  "  mine  ain  gait," 

From  all  restriction  free ; 
Trusting  that  I  could  bide  my  fate, 

Whate'er  that  fate  might  be. 


Teypatya  6  ye 


My  mood  it  was  to  alternate, 

As  you  '11  perceive  I  've  done, 
A  vibratory  pendulum 
'Twixt  sentiment  and  fun. 

t 
Thus  "Tzypafya  o  yeypa<f)a" 

(Excuse  this  classic  bit,) 
Which  means,  if  English  you  prefer, 
I  've  written  what  I  've  writ ! 


10 


THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE 


"  IN  the  interior  of  Central  America  have  been  discovered  the  ruins  of  an 
immense  city,  overgrown  by  a  dense  forest  of  trees ;  in  the  clearing  away 
of  which  large  edifices  have  been  brought  to  light,  together  with  temples 
and  palaces  of  hewn  stone. 

"Though  in  a  state  of  great  dilapidation,  the  rubbish  has  been  cleared 
away  from  some  of  them,  and  their  interior  explored ;  exhibiting  to  the 
astonished  beholder  evidences  of  a  nation  once  existing  there,  highly 
skilled  in  the  Arts,  and  in  a  state  of  civilization  far  beyond  anything  that 
we  have  been  led  to  believe  of  the  Aborigines  previous  to  the  discovery  by 
Columbus."  —  DR.  ACKERLEY'S  CORRESPONDENCE. 


MYSTERIOUS  record  of  relentless  fate  ! 

Vast  mausoleum  of  a  nation  gone! 
Who  shall  thy  wondrous  history  relate  ? 

Who  shall  decipher  thy  sepulchral  stone  ? 


THE    RUINS    OF   PALENQUE.  11 

What  was  thy  doom  ?     What  the  adventurous 

crime 
Which  drew  thee,  powerless,  in  its  fearful 

toils  ? 
Hast  thou  thus  slumbered  since  that  earlier 

time, 

When  the  mad  waters  revelled  in  the  spoils, 
And,  to  the  muttering  of  the  thunder's  roll, 
Gigantic  Ruin  slaked  his  thirsty  soul  ? 

Deep    in    the   womb    of  the    cold,   voiceless 

past, 

Alike  unknown,  unknowing,  hast  thou  lain 
For   centuries !     Spring   breeze,    and   winter 

blast, 
Have  tried  to  rouse  thee  from  thy  trance  in 

vain. 

A  world  hath  grown  above  thee !  heeding  not 
That  'neath  the  beating  of  its  busy  tread, 


12  THE    RUINS    OF   PALENQUE. 

Lost  to  the  present,  by  the  past  forgot, 

Lay  a  vast  army  of  the  pulseless  dead ! 
Mortality  a  lesson  sad  may  learn 
From  the  dank  moss  on  thy  neglected  urn ! 

Dark  relic  of  some  unremembered  age ! 

Vain  the  attempt  thy  history  to  trace. 
Oblivion  throws  her  mantle  o'er  the  page, 

Pointing  for  archives  to  thy  burial-place ! 
The  antiquarian  trims  his  rusty  lamp, 

"To  rove  among  thy  palaces  and  fanes, 
Wiping  with  dainty  hand  the  mould  and  damp 

(The  only  shroud  around  thy  cold  remains), 
No  truth  acquiring  as  he  ploddeth  on, 
Save  that  thou  wast  awhile,  and  thou  art  gone! 

It  is  no  dream.     Ah  no  !  there  was  a  day 
When  here  were  life,  hope,  joy,  and  beauty. 
Where 


THE    RUINS    OF   PALENQUE.  13 

Thy  ruins  crumble  now,  the  sun's  glad  ray 
Hath    sparkled   brightly.     Summer's    soft, 
sweet  air 

Hath  breathed  of  love,  to  many  a  maiden  fond. 
Art  hath  had  being  here!  the  sentient  style 

Hath  bid  the  silent  marble  to  respond 

Unto  its  bidding !     And  the  block  doth  smile 

With  such  fair  forms  of  loveliness  and  grace, 

That  jealous  Time  would  hide,  but  not  efface. 

Above  thee  now  the  forest  wide  is  spread ; 
Sad   summer  winds    utter   their    soothing 

moan; 
The  tiny  wild-flower  nods  above  the  dead, 

A  painted  satire  on  a  prostrate  throne ! 
Where  now  thy  grandeur  ?     On  the  swelling 

surge 

Of  years  remembered   comes   no  voice  of 
thine ; 


14  THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE. 

But  the  lone  cricket  chants  his  fitful  dirge, 

The  only  laborer  in  this  mortal  mine, 
On  some  elaborate  work  of  art  astride, 
Chirping  the  requiem  of  the  sons  of  pride. 

Thou  mightst  have    slept  unrecognized,  un 
known, 

Through  the  vast  period  of  Time  to  be, 
Writhing  to  hear  a  new  world's   smothered 

groan 

(Deep  diapason  to  thine  agony), 
Save  that  the  touch  of  that  anomalous  hand, 
Which  slowly  writes  decay  and  doom  on 

all, 

Had  loosened  from  thy  breast  the  earthy  band 
Which  held  thee  moveless   in   its  mighty 

thrall, 

Unveiling,  'neath  the  dark,  unconscious  mould, 
The  hidden  history  of  the  days  of  old. 


THE   RUINS    OF   PALENQUE.  15 

The   plough   of   Time    upturns    the    historic 

pall, 

'Neath  which,  invested  in  its  garb  of  gloom, 
Deep  mystery  doth  hold  high  Carnival 

With  crumbling  tenants  of  that  splendid 

tomb. 

No  footfall  echoes  in  thy  lonely  street, — 
No  light  remaineth  in  thy  banquet-hall. 
The  insect  creepeth  with  his  noiseless  feet, 

And  the  dew  oozes  from  the  creviced  wall. 
Death's  mantled  reapers  passed  across  the  plain, 
Loading,  with  mortal  sheaves;  his  groaning 
wain. 

Who  can  interpret  of  the  Almighty  mind 
The  impulse?     Who  can  comprehend  the 
thought, 

Whose  mere  volition,  chainless,  unconfined, 
Resolves  again  to  cold,  unthinking  naught 


16  THE   RUINS    OF   PALENQUE. 

(Prompted  by  hate  or  mercy  still  the  same 
The  awful  power)  a  sentient,  vital  world  ? 

Its  origin,  its  destiny,  its  name, 
Into  the  crucible  of  Chaos  hurled, 

There  to  remain  embalmed  in  mimic  state, 

A  nameless  toy,  down-thrown  by  reckless  Fate. 

What  a  deep  interest  twines  round  thy  decay! 

A    melancholy    grandeur !      Pale    thought 

brings 
Suggestive  feeling,  with  her  pensile  ray 

Silvering,  with  light  subdued,  dark,  shadowy 

things ; 
Which,  although  insignificant  they  be 

Each  in  itself,  yet  each  doth  bear  its  part 
In  swelling  out  that  moral  harmony 

Which  vibrates  ever  in  the  human  heart ; 
The  more  mysterious  still  the  more  inspiring 
That  sublimation  of  the  soul's  desiring. 


THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE.  17 

Vainly  we  call  on  Memory  to  awake 

From  her   long   slumber  in    the   shrouded 

past; 
No  ripple  trembles  on  her  placid  lake  ! 

Deep  are  the  shadows  on  her  mirror  cast. 
No  phantom  hand  shall  touch  the  silent  lyre, 

Waking  that  tone  illusory,  though  sweet, 
And,  with  the  impulse  of  departed  fire, 

Startle  the  echoes  from  their  wild  retreat ! 
Deep  Silence  stands,  a  sentinel  sublime, 
Guarding  the  records  of  departed  time  ! 

The  pensive  bard  may  woo  the  Muse  in  vain, 
For  lore  historic  to  perfect  his  theme. 

New  is  the  race  which  roves  the  unconscious 

plain, 
Sibyl  nor  prophet  lives  to  explain  the  dream 

We  would  interpret.     Dark,  perpetual  night 
Enfolds  those  unknown  slumberers.     Never 


18  THE    RUINS   OF   PALENQUE. 

Shall    earthly  morning    greet   them  with   its 

light. 
To  sense  and  time  their  eyes  are  closed  for 

ever ! 

What  was  their  errand  ?  what  their  destiny  ? 
Predict  from  this,  O  sage,  what  thine  may  be ! 

The  cool  sophistic  would  philosophize 

Upon  this  handful  of  mysterious  dust, 
(Throwing  some  portion  of  it  in  your  eyes, 

That  you  may  take  his  dictum  upon  trust,) 
Not  as  a  serious  "  memento  mori  " 

(That  were  to  him  too  common-sense  and 

plain) : 
But,  shrewdly  reasoning  "  a  posteriori," 

Resolve  them  to  their  elements  again. 
As  if  God's  marvels  were,  to  him,  a  scroll, 
Which  he,  with  hallowed  fingers,  might  un 
roll! 


THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE.  19 

Vain  the  attempt  the  Almighty's  thought  to 

learn, 

By  scanning  it  through  philosophic  glass  ; 
Or  sifting  the  frail  dust  in  mortal  urn. 

Wisdom  but  whispers  us,   that   "  flesh   is 

grass"! 
Wisdom  !  what  is  it  ?  proven,  year  by  year, 

To  be  but  vanity  and  idle  boast. 
The  word  prophetic  of  the  by-gone  seer 

Is  now  the  thesis  for  satiric  toast ! 
'T  would  not  be  strange  if  all  the  wealth  of 

sages 
Should  be  the  laughing-stock  of  coming  ages. 

Each  age  the  credo  of  the  last  effaces ; 

A  fossil  city,  starting  from  its  grave, 
The  landmarks  of  geology  displaces. 

As, 'from  the  silvery  beach,  the  in-flowing 
wave 


20  THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE. 

Blots  the  quaint  sketches  which  the  wave  be 
fore 

So  cunningly  had  stamped,  —  a  world,  new 
born, 
In-rolling  upon  Time's  gray,  silvery  shore, 

Blots  out  all  traces  of  an  old  world  gone. 
Thus,  after  all,  the  sum  of  this  earth's  history 
Is  this  :  An  inference  questioning  a  mystery ! 

Spite  of  all  science,  there  will  still  remain 

To  earth  full  many  a  secret  all  its  own : 
Inscription  mystic  upon  sculptured  fane, 

By  man  unchronicled,  to  man  unknown ; 
Quaint  hieroglyphics,  traced  by  cunning  hands, 

Puzzling  the  research  of  the  cunning  mind, 
Unwritten  in  the  legends  of  the  lands, 

But  to  the  archives  of  the  dead  confined. 
Brooding  inquiry  becomes  insane, 
And,  for  relief,  seeks  the  young  world  again ! 


THE    RUINS    OF   PALENQUE.  21 

Time's  century-reapers,  as  they  wander  on, 

(Trolling  some  merry  libel  on  the  past,) 
Blot  out  our  vaunted  glories  one  by  one ; 

Chanting  "  Time's  noblest  offspring  is  the 

last " ! 
A  few  weak  struggles  against  certain  fate 

(Our  personal  necessity)  is  all 
That  we  are  sure  of,  in  this  curious  state, 

Toil,  and  privation,  and  a  dusty  pall. 
And  future  records  will  but  serve  to  show 
The  same  sad  cycle  of  returning  woe. 

Mother  of  sad  reflection !  why  may  not 
The  future  destination  of  our  plains 

Be  similar  to  thine  ?     A  burial  spot 

For  our  neglected  and  unknown  remains  ? 

'T  is  a  wild  dream  to  dream;    and  yet  we 

need 
No  high-wrought  fancy,  nor  prophetic  ken 


22  THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE. 

To  reason  from  analogy.     We  read 

Of  a  vast  nation  but  that  it  has  been ! 
And  then  its  dark,  brief  history  we  close, 
Wrapt  in  the  mantle  of  its  deep  repose. 

A  world  within  a  world !     Unfolding  too, 

At  every  step,  indisputable  proof 
Of  luxury  and  age ;  startling  the  view 

With    "  golden   Lares,   and   with   frescoed 

roof," 
Gorgeous  mementos  of  perfected  art. 

Ay,  but  the  question,  "  Perfected  by  whom  ?  " 
Throws  back  the  current  of  the  beating  heart ; 

For  who  shall  dare  to  argue  with  the  tomb  ? 
What  a  vain  mockery  all  the  toil  and  care, 
Lying  in  pompous  desolation  there  ! 

How  many  legends  of  departed  days 

Within  the  earth's  cold  bosom  lie  concealed, 


THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE.  23 

Hid  from  the  busy  Present's  sordid  gaze ! 

How  many  wondrous  histories,  unrevealedi 
We  shudder  as  we  ponder  on  the  fact, 

That,  rove  where'er  we  will,  on  land  or  wave, 
Pale  Death,  before  us,  the  whole  way  hath 
tracked. 

Each  flower  is  rooted  in  some  secret  grave ; 
Each  step   of  the  proud   ship,  from  zone  to 

zone, 
Is  o'er  a  pulseless  heart,  or  bleaching  bone. 

Cast  up  life's  brief  account.    How  foolish,  vain, 
Viewed  through  the  microscope  which  rea 
son  lends ! 
How  many  losses,  and  how  little  gain ! 

What  vast  exertions  for  what  trifling  ends  ! 
Struggles  !  for  high  Ambition's  dazzling  goal. 
Dreams!  which  are  destined  ever  dreams  to 
be. 


24  THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQUE. 

False  aspirations  !  fettering  the  soul, 

Yet  claiming  for  themselves  true  liberty, 
Forgetting  that  in  chains  we  wander  here, 
Watching  a  promise  floating  on  a  tear  ! 

Age  after  age  has  man  in  learning  grown, 

Till  like  a  giant  in  his  might  he  stands ! 
Master  of  every  nature  but  his  own  ;  — 

Geographer  of  all  but  the  few  sands, 
Which,  curiously  attracted,  act  and  bind 

The  spirit  in  its  cabinet  of  clay, 
Too  often  like  a  captive  thing  confined, 

Uncheered  too  often  by  one  purer  ray ; 
But  left,  all  holier  impulses  withdrawn, 
The  sceptic's  plaything  and  the  cold  world's 


Record  mysterious  !  to  the  dark  eclipse 

Which  shrouds  thy  form  investigation  brings 


THE    RUINS    OF    PALENQTTE.  25 

No  satisfactory  apocalypse ; 

But  broodeth  over  thee  with  folded  wings, 
Turns  o'er  each  relic  cautiously,  to  gain 

Some  token  through  whose  medium  to  find 
Thy  lost  connection  with  life's  broken  chain, 

Oblivion's  rusty  hinges  to  unbind. 
Her  bark  lies  freightless  on  the  dusky  shore, 
And  the  lone  cricket  dirges,  as  before ! 


26 


A    FEW    MORE    LEFT. 

V 


"  A  FEW  more  left ! "     It 's  always  so ; 

Who  ever  saw  the  last  ? 
You  send  home  your  umbrella,  — 

You  suppose  the  storm  is  past,  — 
But  when  its  in  the  hat-stand  snug, 
Old  Pluvius  takes  out  the  plug. 

Talk  of  the  last  ?      There  's  no  such  thing! 
There  is  no  last.     How  can  there  be  ? 


A    FEW    MORE    LEFT.  27 

'T  is  but  a  fool's  conjecturing. 

Where  do  you  find  Eternity, 
If  you  believe  each  passing  hour 
Subtracted  from  our  final  dower  ? 

"  A  few  more  left !  "     Why,  look  at  Blitz ! 

Ask  him  but  for  a  small  "bouquet," 
He  '11  "  knock  the  idea  into  fits,"  — 

Furnish  you  flowers  full  half  a  day, 
And  cultivate  them  all,  at  that, 
In  some  old,  worn-out  beaver  hat. 

"  A  few  more  left  ?  "     Of  course  there  are ; 

And  will  be,  while  the  world  goes  on. 
Each  year  or  two  some  new-born  star 

Shines  out  from  its  celestial  zone. 

4 

A  man  must  be  of  sense  bereft 

Who  thinks  there  can't  be  one  more  left. 


28  A   FEW    MORE    LEFT. 

Although  the  bad  predominate, 
And  evil  vaunteth  over  good,  — 

Though  Virtue  oft  is  spurned  by  Fate, 
And  fails  to  compass  what  it  would, — 

Faith,  smiling  at  Earth's  treasures  reft, 

Points  upward  to  those  "  few  more  left " ! 


29 


PAST    AWAY! 


"  PAST  away !  "     Mysterious  meanings 

Those  two  words  involve  ; 
Life,  and  Death,  and  Destiny  !  — 

More  than  man  can  solve. 
History,  from  her  dusky  archives, 

Vainly  would  essay 
More  than  that  laconic  record, 
"  Past  away !  " 


30  PAST   AWAY. 


"  Past  away ! "     The  echo  vibrates, 

Like  a  tolling  bell, 
Where  a  mortal  dwelt  and  perished. 

If  in  quiet  dell, 
Or  in  cities  grand  with  pride,  — 

Here,  or  far  away,  — 
Still  chime  on  that  mournful  duo, 
"  Past  away ! " 


Spring,  with  sweet  reunion,  comes,  — 
Sunshine,  bird,  and  flower ; 

Music,  dearest  gift  of  all, 
Woos  the  scented  hour. 

Care  has  "  gone  a  gypsying  "  ! 
Pleasure  leads  the  day ! 

With  the  twilight  comes  that  chime, 
"  Past  away ! " 


PAST   AWAY.  31 


On  the  cheek  of  fading  beauty, 

Sleeping  with  the  rose,  — 
Slowly  stealing  into  notice, 

From  their  soft  repose,  — 
Visible,  although  in  shadow,  — 

Those  same  words  appear, 
Like  the  calm,  prophetic  warning 
Of  a  seer. 

On  the  tomb  of  nations  vanished, 

Sculptured  clear  and  deep,  — 
Through  the  mist  and  rime  of  ages,  — 

Doth  that  record  sleep. 
Howsoe'er  enshrined  in  story, 

Or  embalmed  in  song, 
With  the  paean  and  the  triumph 

Steals  that  chime  along, 

"  Past  away !  Past  away !  " 


A    SOLILOQUY. 


JT  is  my  last,  last  potato  ! 

Yet  calmly  I  stand, 
With  the  firmness  of  Cato, 

My  fork  in  my  hand. 

Not  one  in  the  basket ! 

And  is  it  then  so  ? 
With  sorrow  I  ask  it, 

Shall  I  eat  thee,  or  no  ? 


A    SOLILOQUY.  33 


Poor,  fated  Chenango ! 

What  feelings  arise, 
As  the  tears  trickle  down 

From  thy  prominent  eyes ! 

I  '11  make  one  incision, 

There's  no  need  to  peel  ye, 

'Twill  let  in  the  vision 
To  judge  if  ye  're  mealy. 

How  wholesome,  how  turfy, 
It  smells  through  the  mist! 

A  genuine  Murphy! 
O,  who  could  resist ! 

If,  in  that  blessed  Eden, 

Potatoes  had  been 
Of  fruits  the  forbidden, 

We  still  should  have  Sin. 


34  A    SOLILOQUY. 


For  who,  in  his  senses, 
Would  long  be  in  doubt, 

'Twixt  Earth  with  potatoes, 
Or  Eden  without! 


35 


SONNET    TO 


"  I  WISH  —  O,  how  I  wish  we  ne'er  had  met ! " 
Sighing  you  whispered  me  at  our  last  meet 
ing- 
Confess  to  me,  Love's  Priest,  that  you  regret 
Each  sad  "  good  bye  "  is  not  a  tender  meet 
ing. 

The  wish  is  negative  for  what  is  gone. 
Fond  Wish  is  Hope's  young  sister, 

ever  straying 

After  some  dream  delicious  farther  on, 
With  sweet  anticipation  idly  playing. 


36  SONNET    TO 


The  tree  would  die ;  the  flower  would  droop 

and  fade, 

'Neath  the  warm  influence  of  perpetual  noon ! 
Mingled  with  sunshine  there  must  be  some 

shade ; 
Were  there  no  light,  then  there  would  be  no 

moon. 
Earth  were  too  much  like  heaven,  dear  girl, 

with  you, 

Unless  two  sad  "  good  byes  "  embraced  each 
«  how  d  'ye  do  ?  " 


37 


SOU  P! 


LET  others  mount  their  Pegasus 

And  fly  to  worlds  afar, 
Inditing  pensive  sonnet 

By  the  light  of  some  young  star. 

Mine  the  task—  («  Thalia  ave!  " 
From  thy  proud  eyrie  stoop, 

Aid  me!  in  this  mine  "onus  grave") 
To  pen  an  ode  to  Soup ! 


38  SOUP ! 

First  comes  majestic  Turtle  ! 

(How  I  wish  I  had  a  bowl !) 
Like  a  symphony, —  all  fragments, — 

Blending  in  a  perfect  whole ! 

Talk  to  me  of  California ! 

Here  we  have  whole  spheres  of  gold. 
Lighting  up  those  soft  green  islands, 

Wherein  sleep,  as  I  've  been  told, 

Souls  of  faded  Aldermen ! 

And  yet  who  would  mind  the  jeer, 
If  he  too  could  dine  on  Turtle 

Fifty-two  times  in  a  year,  — 

And  enjoy  the  hope  poetic, 
That  he  too  may  rest  in  peace, 

In  some  gastronomic  island, 
Near  the  classic  soil  of  Greece  ? 


SOUP  !  39 


There 's  Julian!  Macaroni!  Brown! 

Voluptuous  Ox-tail  too ! 
My  hungry  Muse  would  taste  them  all, 

But  that  she  may  not  do. 

Chicken  !  pale,  pensive  Chicken ! 

Pregnant  with  sad  ideas,  — 
Croup,  whooping-cough,  and  measles, 

Nurses,  castor-oil,  and  tears,  — 

Upon  whose  calm,  unruffled  breast 

No  floating  thing  is  seen, 
All  whose  disturbing  causes  rest 

Submerged  in  the  tureen  ! 

To  thee,  pale  Chicken !  shall  be  given 

The  tribute  of  this  lay ; 
Thou  unassuming,  gentle  friend 

Of  my  young,  brothy  day. 


40  SOUP  ! 


True  to  the  last!  consistent  still ! 

Pure,  as  when  first  I  knew  thee. 
No  Soup  equivocal  art  thou,  — 

An  infant  may  see  through  thee ! 

O,  may  my  right  spoon  bend  and  break, 
When  I  shall  prize  thee  not ; 

And  may  I  close  thy  heavy  lid 
Whene'er  thou  "  goest  to  Pot  " ! 


41 


SONG. 


LADY!  when  the  Night-breeze,  waking, 

Leaves  her  island  in  the  sea, 
And  the  Star  of  Eve,  new-risen, 

Whispers  me  of  heaven  and  thee,  — 

Think  upon  those  glad  hours  banished 

With  the  hopes  of  earlier  years, 
Brilliant,  even  while  they  vanished, 

Precious  now,  though  viewed  through  tears ! 


42  SONG. 


Fare  thee  well !     Thou  mayst  not  listen 
To  a  sad  refrain  like  mine,  — 

To  a  Song  whose  inspiration 

Lives  but  in  that  glance  of  thine. 

Still,  within  my  heart  enfolded, 
Dwells  the  memory  enshrined 

Of  those  blissful  days  departed, 
With  the  present  sadly  twined. 

Fare  thee  well !  Although  thine  altar 
Hold  from  me  no  offering  now,      4, 

Save  Hope's  faded,  scentless  garlands 
Clustering  round  thy  broken  vow,  — 

Memory,  fondly  still,  re-echoes 
The  glad  music  it  hath  known ; 

As  the  harp  of  evening  vibrates 

When  the  breeze  hath  wandered  on. 


43 


SONNET    TO 


NESTLE  still  closer  to  me,  Genevieve, 

Until  thy  heart's  pulsation  seems  to  be 
Trembling  in  mine ;  as  doth  the  Star  of  Eve 
Within  the  breast  of  the  unquiet  Sea. 

Far  down,  among  the  Ocean's  swaying 

flowers, 
Which  the  young   Mermaids  gather, 

her  mild  rays 

Are  shining ;  and  upon  the  coral  towers, 
With  swinging  sea-weed  draped,  her 
soft  light  strays. 


44  SONNET    TO 


Thus,  through  my  soul's  deep-shaded,  lightless 
places, 

In  breaks  thy  presence  like  a  starry  beam, 
Revealing  in  life's  desert  an  oasis,  — 

Making  reality  a  heavenly  dream ! 
Nestle  still  closer.     Now,  we  seem  to  be, 

Thyself  the  Ocean,  I  that  Star  to  thee ! 


45 


INSPIRATION. 


THE  fount  of  inspiration  lies 

Where'er  the  Poet  chooses. 

/ 

'Neath  soft  Italians  tinted  skies, 
Where  Love  doth  lurk  in  those  dark  eyes 
Which  light  the  bowers  of  Paradise, 
(At  least  so  say  the  Muses,) 

Or,  where  the  heartless  Northern  blast, 

Upon  his  frozen  steed  astride, 
His  snowy  cloak  at  random  cast, 
Loud  shrieketh  as  he  hurrieth  past, 
Relentless,  furious,  and  fast, 
The  cozy  Ingle-side. 


46  INSPIRATION. 


A  plaintive  song,  a  wee  wild-flower, 

Have  wakened  in  the  soul 
Till  then  unconscious  of  the  power, 
An  inspiration  for  the  hour, 
A  ray  unseen,  unfelt  before,  — 
The  tenth  wave  on  the  silvery  shore,  — 
Then,  lost  the  sweet  control. 

Spirits  there  are,  to  whom,  unknown 
To  the  cold  world,  each  fleeting  min 
ute 

Has  a  dear  influence  of  its  own, 
Some  softer  light,  some  tenderer  tone, 
Some  moonlight  dream  around  it  thrown, 
Some  glad  thought  in  it ! 

There  are  who  delve,  for  glory's  sake, 

The  Laureate  to  attain ! 
Who  think  asleep,  who  toil  awake, 
And  life  a  melancholy  make, 


INSPIRATION.  47 


By  striving  thus  to  overtake          % 
A  shadow  in  the  brain  ! 

Thus  woo  not  I,  for  Epic  theme, 

The  unpropitious  Nine ; 
Thus  drink  not  I  from  shadowy  stream 
Chained  to  Ambition's  slavish  dream. 
O,  sweeter  far  the  draught  I  deem 
From  this  wee  fount  of  mine ! 

No  serious  Melpomene, 

From  her  despotic  throne, 
Shall  issue  her  commands  to  me ! 
My  thought,  though  humble,  shall  be  free; 
Nor  supplicate,  on  bended  knee, 
For  leave  to  walk  alone. 
O'er  heath,  thro'  vale  and  meadow,  straying, 

Adown  the  rocky  glen,  — 
Where  sunbeams  on  small   boughs  are 
playing, 


48  INSPIRATION. 


Where  unknown  flowers  are  gently  sway 
ing) 

And  the  shy  fairies  do  their  Maying, 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  men. 

Mine  be  the  Muse  the  instant  brings, 

Type  of  the  passing  feeling,  — 
The  light  from  whose  prismatic  wings, 
In  fitful,  trembling  beauty,  flings 
Its  tint  o'er  my  imaginings, 
Electric  thought  revealing ! 

Thus,  from  each  fancy  flitting  by, 

My  wayward  friend  shall  take 
Some  little  scented  memory, 
Some    wild-flower    from    my    thought's 

bouquet, 

Her  quaint,  mosaic  history 
Of  my  mind's  life  to  make. 


49 


TRIUNE    EPIGRAM. 


WHO  thinks  the  nascitur  not  fit, 

Sure  sense  and  wisdom  lacks. 
Why  rove  afar  for  sterling  wit  ? 

We  have  it  in  our  Saxe ! 
Quote  you  from  Juvenal's  Satirics 

The  wittiest  idea, 
Or  gems  from  the  Horatian  Lyrics, 

We  can  quote  W(h)ittier  here! 
Then  seek  not  wit  in  foreign  lands, 

Nor  search  through  ancient  tomes, 
When  it  is  ready  at  our  hands, 

And  sparkling  in  our  Ho(l)mes! 


50 


TO  A  VENERABLE    HURDY-GURDY. 


BLE*ST  were  the  hours,  wh  en,  in  thy  happy  prime, 
Thy  soul,  new-wired,  out-twanged  itself  in 

song, 
When  thy  proud  owner's  bounding  heart  kept 

time 
To  thy  glad  measure  as  life  trolled  along. 

How  pensively  he  watched  the  Son's  last  raise 
Silvering  thy  polished  surface  as  they  shone ! 


TO    A   VENERABLE    HURDY-GURDY.  51 

How  smiled  he,  as  he  circled  thee  with  baize 
At  eve,  when  thy  triumphant  march  was 
done ! 

Then   waked   thy   fervid   chords  to   "  Love's 

Young  Dream," 
Or  moaned  through  "  Mary,  I  believed  thee 

true"! 
Sweetly    they    told    of    "  Bendemeer's    blue 

stream," 
And  joyous  wert  thou.      Life,  to  thee,  was 


How  much  like  youth!     In  thy  first  spring 
time  days 

Full  of  glad  influence,  and  tender  tone, 
Ready,  at  morn,  with  thy  harmonious  lays, 
Nor  wearied  with  thyself  when  day  was  done. 
How  much  like  youth ! 


52  TO    A   VENERABLE    HURDY-GURDY. 

Now  suddenly  ejecting  quaint  orgasms, 

Mingled  with  wild  and  incoherent  mutter 
ing, 

And  horrid  groans,  indicative  of  spasms, 
One  strain,  and  then  a  five-bar  rest  of  stut 
tering,  — 

How  much  like  age  ! 

How  much  like  age!  The  will  without  the 
power, 

Sad  emblem  of  man's  worn-out  pilgrimage, 
Weakness  and  imbecility  thy  dower, 

Past  by  neglectfully, — how  much  like  age  ! 

Poor  Hurdy !  mourn  not  over  rusty  wires 
And  broken  cogs :  no !  view  them  (as  you  can) 

But  as  the  emblems  of  the  weak  desires, 
The  hopes  decayed  which  mark  the  course 
of  man. 


TO   A   VENERABLE    HURDY-GURDY.  53 

Cheer  up  then  !     Thine  is  no  peculiar  lot : 
Such  is  the  history  of  us  all  below. 

This  living,  rusting,  but  to  be  forgot, 
Completes  the  cycle  of  a  world  of  woe. 


54 


JENNY  LIND'S    GREETING  TO  AMERICA. 

* 


IT  is  no  dream  !     The  foaming  sea 
Its  burden  to  the  shore  has  cast, 
And  at  the  shrine  of  Liberty 
I  kneel  at  last. 

The  shrine  of  Liberty !  that  word 

By  me  how  prized,  to  me  how  dear ! 
Though  undefined,  so  often  heard  ! 
And  am  I  here  ? 


JENNY   LIND'S  GREETING    TO    AMERICA.  55 

Yes,  I  am  here  !     My  pulses  leap  ! 
With  patriot  zeal  my  bosom  thrills ! 

0  that  this  genial  air  might  sweep 

O'er  Swedia's  hills,  — 

Until  her  every  mount  and  dell 

(As  touched  by  an  enchanter's  wand) 
Should  smile  beneath  its  magic  spell, — 
Mine  own,  loved  land ! 

1  come  !  I  come  to  weave  a  chain 

Of  melody,  to  bind  the  hour. 
O,  should  we  never  meet  again, 
May  it  have  power 

To  say,  where  words  could  not  impart 

The  wildering,  joyous  thoughts  which  throng, 
I  yielded  you  my  very  heart, 
My  soul,  my  soul,  in  Song. 


56 


SONNET. 


PHRENOLOGY  !  I  send  this  missive  to  you  now, 
To  beg  you  '11  send  a  load  of  bumps,  by  the 

first  train. 
Having  many  virtuous  holes  unoccupied,  do 

thou, 

In  mercy  to  thine  humble  supplicant,  deign 
To  stuff  them  for  my  good. 

Cram  full  my  upper  story 
With  knots  of  blazing  piety  ;  that  it  may  be 
A  transcendental  lighthouse,  —  a   far-shining 
glory ! 


SONNET.  57 


Whose  rays,  humane,  point  out  the  fearful 

breakers  in  life's  sea. 
Stop  up  all  those  dark  crevices  where  sin  might 

enter : 
When  short  of  intellectual  putty,  stick  to 

wax! 

Place  Moral  Courage,  sentinel,  in  the  centre, 
And  let  Suspicion,  wary,  peep  through  the 

small  cracks. 
Where  substance  can't  be  used,  resort  to  an 

injection : 

In  short,  if  "  all  the  same  to  you,"  make  me 
perfection ! 


58 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  PRAIRIE-FLOWER. 

••  :4  *  .  •'.!» 


LOITERING  in  a  garden  one  summer's  day,  among 
a  collection  of  gorgeous  exotics,  I  spied  a  tiny  flower 
which  seemed  so  out  of  place,  with  her  little,  pale, 
sentimental  face  peeping  through  the  flaunting  dresses 
of  those  foreign  flirts  (who  appeared  to  take  infinite 
satisfaction  in  standing  between  her  and  the  blue 
sky  and  sunshine),  I  thought  the  flower  whispered 
me  this  scented  prayer  :  — 

BEAR  me  back!  bear  me  back  to  the  quiet  nook 

In  the  prairie  glade, 
Where,  near  the  sadly  murmuring  brook, 

With  friends  around  me, 
By  the  odor-laden  breezes  swayed, 

You  found  me. 


THE    PRAYER    OF   THE    PRAIRIE-FLOWER.  59 

Beneath  the  quiet,  overarching  sky, 

Unknown  and  unadmired 
Save  by  those  few  I  love  the  best 

And  Him  who  sent  me  from  on  high, 
Let  me  in  silence  rest. 
O,  take  me  back !  that  I  may  hear  again 
His  voice  low  murmuring  on  the  boundless  plain. 

Say  not  that  gentle  care  will  house  me  warm 
When  winter  breathes  upon  my  sister  flowers, 

No  fears  have  I! 

Heaven's  mercy  shields  me  through  the  sum 
mer  storm, 

And  Faith  bides  calmly  the  autumnal  hours, 
When  I  must  die. 

Nay,  more ! 

Hold  me  not  up  in  my  simplicity, 
To  be  the  gaze  of  those  exotic  things 


60          THE    PRAYER    OF    THE    PRAIRIE-FLOWER. 

From  foreign  shore. 

Give  them  their  passport  from  Nobility  ! 
I  am  protected  by  the  King  of  kings ! 

I  cannot  be  resigned  ;  but  still  must  pine 
For  the  cool  rustling  of  the  evening  breeze 

In  that  far  home  of  mine. 

O,  let  me  hold,  in  this  mine  hour  of  grief. 

Some  cherished  memory  from  that  loved  spot, 
Though  but  a  faded  leaf! 

Deny  me  not ! 

Never  again !  my  sad  heart  tells  me  so, 
Shall  I  rejoice  among  my  kindred  flowers. 
That  joy  I  may  not  know, 
Upon  the  rivulet's  moist  and  mossy  bank, 
To  loiter  pleasant  days  and  moonlight  hours, 
Never  again ! 


THE    PRAYER    OF    THE    PRAIRIE-FLOWER.          61 

Broken  is  the  delicious  chain  ; 
A  dark  cloud  lowers. 

I  'm  dying ! 

Loosen  the  earth  around  me ! 

Remove  those  lilies,  that  the  sad  breeze,  sigh 
ing, 

May  kiss  me  for  the  last,  last  time. 
Bring  me  some  dew !  my  feverish  lips  are  drying : 

I  hear  the  Fairies'  pensive  funeral  chime. 


62 


S  H  ADO  WS. 


How  dreary  seems  this  world, 

Examined  through  a  roll  of  unpaid  bills, 
A  map  of  misery  to  the  eye  unfurled, 

A  perfect  horror-scope  of  ills  ! 

We  scan  the  horizon,  in  the  hope  to  see 
Some  barque  returning  where  our  venture 
lay, 

Freighted  with  golden  promise  of  "  to  be  " ! 
No  signal  greets  us  in  the  stormy  bay ! 


SHADOWS.  63 


How  very  strangely  now  upon  the  ear 

Fall  words  of  kindness,  voices  low  and  sweet, 

Whispering  of  blissful  expectations  near, 
Hastening  the  glad  heart's  beat! 

Then  look  we  through  our  telescope  for  friends : 
Not  one,  alas  !  where  once  we  had  so  many. 

A  sudden  dulness  has  come  o'er  the  lends, 
Point  where  we  may,  we  look  in  vain  for  any. 

Endeavor  we,  by  means  of  an  extension, 

To  reach  our  object.     Still  we  strive  in  vain. 
At  last  it  comes  within  our  comprehension 

That  what  we  've  lost  will  ne'er  come  back 

t 
again. 

Like  to  some  dream  insane  doth  come  the  text, 
"  To  him  who  hath,  to  him  shall  more  be 
given," 


64  SHADOWS. 


"  From  him  who  hath  not  —  "  Here,  still  more 

perplexed, 

We  wish  our  Creditors  (to  make  it  even) 
Enjoying  in  that  world  they  call  the  next 
The  bliss  we  've  tasted  here.     Perhaps  that 's 
Heaven ! 


65 


SONNET    TO 


"  Too  late  I  stayed."     A  very  pleasant  crime, 
Which,  doubtless,  one  is  bound  to  expiate 
When  he  determines  how  to  reckon  time. 
It 's  all  Pickwickian,  this  idea  of  late. 
If  thus  the  bright  hours  hasten,  —  if  the 

sands 

Thus  get  the  start  of  time  and  all  ho 
rology,— 

My  watch  shall  be  divested  of  the  hands. 
'  Then  shall   I  have  the  face  to  make 
apology. 

5 


66  SONNET    TO 


One  thing  is  very  certain  in  this  life, 

'T is  this:  that  we're  descended,  all,  from 

Tantalus. 

Pray  Heaven  he  had  a  handsome,  virtuous  wife 
(That  history  don't  mention  her  is  scanda 
lous). 

If  there 's  one  question  harder  than  another 
To  answer,  in  such  case,  it 's  "  How  Js  your 
mother?" 


67 


ROM  ANZ  A.  — TO 


WHAT  would  life  be  to  us  without  Romance  ? 

A  march  funereal,  with  its  steady  beat 
And  solemn  step.     A  serio-comic  dance, 

Whose  only  music  were  the  tramp  of  feet 
O'er  that  undevious  bridge,  where  every  soul 

Must  leave  some  relic,  as  it  passes  by,  — 
Some  dear  remembrancer,  by  way  of  toll, 

And,  in  exchange,  receive  a  tear  —  or  sigh. 


68  ROMANZA. 


O,  rather  let  our  thought  go  wandering  free 
As  roving  Gypsies.     Now,  through  summer 

fields ; 
Now,  tenting  it  beside  the  sobbing  sea, 

Whose  low,  sad   murmuring  through   the 

senses  steals 
Like  unforgotten  music  of  a  bird, 

With    pensive    memories    and   sad   voices 

blended  ; 
Or  plaintive  song,  which,  though   for   years 

unheard, 

Comes  sighing  back,  e'en  sadder  than  it  then 
did. 

If  we  could  borrow  wings,  dear  Genevieve, 
We  'd  take  a  flight  across  the  summer  seas ! 

Or,  bidding  earth  good  by  some  moonlight 

eve, 
Touch  at  "  Orion  "  and  the  «  Pleiades !  " 


ROMANZA.  69 


Free  from  her  moorings  some  young  Angel's 

boat, 
While  he  in  dreams  of  his  fair  saint  lies 

sleeping, 

From  star  to  star,  propelled  by  music,  float, 
Through   the  bright  heavens  our  brilliant 
voyage  keeping. 

Or  we  would  hang  our  hearts  upon  the  horns 

Of  the  young  moon,  in  the  fresh  evening  air, 
While,  far  below,  upon  mosaic  lawns, 

Flowers  of  the  night  their  scented  breasts 

lay  bare 

To  catch  the  wayward  wanderers,  should  af 
fright, 

When  Luna  in  the  West  begins  to  wane, 
Urge  them  to  tempt  the  uncalculated  height, 
And  leap,  through  silence,  down  to  earth 
again ! 


70  ROMANZA. 


Let  others  kneel  before  the  gaudy  shrine 

Of  Flora,  circled  with  enamelled  chain. 
Ours  be  the  sweeter  task,  dear  Genevieve, 

The  scented  brier  in  the  shady  lane 
With   the  star-wooed   Nyctanthis   flower  to 

weave. 
Or  make  sad  wreaths  of  withered  way-side 

flowers,  v 
From  which  the  fragrance  and  the  bloom  have 

past, 
Whose  faded  leaves  turn  backward  to  those 

hours 
The  envious  dial  counted  off  so  fast. 

Forget  to-day.       Come  back  with  me!  and 

dream     >  ;v 

O'er  those  sweet  yesterdays  we  've  loved 
and  lost, 


ROMAN  ZA.  71 


Which  stand,  with  folded  wings,  beside  life's 

stream, 
Softly  daguerreotyped  by  memory's  beam. 

Not  misanthropical  to  count  the  cost, 
But,  miser-like,  to  hug  them  to  thy  heart, 

(Those  Phantom  Statuettes  of  joy's  ideal,) 
Till,  warmed  by  thee,  each  pulse  anew  shall 

start, 

And  they  shall  live  again,  unchanged  and 
real! 


72 


THE  FESTIVAL   OF  TEARS. 


'T  is  Music's  choicest  "  Festival " ! 

'T  is  Malibran*  who  sings ! 
With  her  thrilling  Hallelujahs, 

The  vast  Cathedral  rings ! 


*  The  death  of  Malibran  was  most  touching  and  poetic,  as 
described  to  me  by  that  eloquent  enthusiast,  Rev.  Henry  Giles. 
What  of  merit  there  may  be  in  this  little  poem,  I  may  refer  to 
him,  in  a  certain  sense,  as  it  was  his  glowing  description  which 
inspired  me.  —  H.  J.  S. 


THE    FESTIVAL    OF    TEAKS.  73 

Free  as  the  bird  among  the  clouds, 

She  roams  without  control ; 
Her  rich,  sad  tones  come  gushing  forth 

Like  voices  from  the  soul ! 

Swaying,  with  her  angelic  notes, 

The  awed  and  silent  crowd, 
Whose  hearts,  responsive  to  the  spell, 

Are  beating  fast  and  loud, 

What  muffled  form  bends  over  her, 

To  catch  her  last  low  tone  ? 
What  passionate  idolater, 

Mysterious  and  alone  ? 

Some  ardent  lover  must  he  be ;  — 

How  clings  he  to  her  side ! 
How  lifteth  he  his  mantle  up, 

To  veil  his  flush  of  pride ! 


74  THE    FESTIVAL    OF    TEARS. 

\ 

Nearer  he  draws  !     He  fears  to  lose, 
Of  hers,  the  slightest  breath ! 

"  Bravissimo  ! "     He  leads  her  out ! 
The  mantle  falls.     'T  is  Death ! 

Carved  upon  that  ghastly  brow 

In  lurid  light  appears, 
"  This  shall  be  called  my  <  Festival,' 

The  Festival  of  Tears  !  " 

Loved  friends  are  bending  over  her. 

"  In  vain !  "  a  deep  voice  sadi, 
"  Ye  are  but  whispering  to  dust, 

That  soul  in  song  hath  fled !  " 

«  Robed  for  a  higher  '  Festival,' 
She  heareth  not  your  prayer." 

She  is  now  in  Heaven's  Cathedral,  - 
Her  spirit  chanteth  there ! " 


75 


SONNET  TO  NOTHING. 


MYSTERIOUS  Nihil !     As  I  never  saw  you, 
Nor  can  describe  you,  or  in  form  or  feature, 
You  '11  marvel  at  my  sudden  fondness  for 

you. 
But  do  n't  look  blank,  if  I  should  chance 

to  meet  you. 
I  know  your  fascinating  sister,  Silence, 

very  well : 

Many  are  the  cozy  times  we  ?ve  had  to 
gether. 


76  SONNET    TO    NOTHING. 

Oft  her  sweet  influence  hath  bound  me  in 

a  spell 

Of  dreamy  ecstasy,  until  I  knew  not  whether, 

Listening  the  Ocean's  sympathetic  grieving 

(As  the  odor-laden  land-breeze  loitered  by), 

'Twas  my  own  heart,  or  the  sad  sea,  thus 

heaving  ; 
Or  if  the  Wind's  soft  breath  were  your 

dear  Sister's  sigh. 
When  next  you  hear  from  Silence,  (Nothing,) 

as  you  will, 

Forget  not,  though  she  scorn  to  speak  to  me, 
I  love  her  still ! 


77 


TO    THE    BOBOLINK. 


QUAINT  and  curious  little  singer, 
Winged,  aerial  Swiss  bell-ringer, 
Floating  now,  as  if  at  pleasure 
On  thine  own  delicious  measure, 

In  the  Summer  air: 
Now  upon  a  tree-top  tilting, 
Keeping  time  with  thy  mad  lilting, 
Melodizing,  in  thy  freak, 
Irish,  Dutch,  Hungarian,  Greek, 
Joyous  everywhere. 


78  TO    THE    BOBOLINK. 

Now,  a  short  and  funny  strain, 

Ending  quick,  as  if  a  pain 
Suddenly  attacked  the  throat, 
Strangling  here  and  there  a  note, 
And  theri  racing 

Through  the  queerest  fantasies, 

On  the  grass  and  in  the  skies, 

i 
Tinkling,  choaking,  fluttering,  chattering, 

Blinking,  winking,  bowing,  clattering, 
Trotting,  running,  pacing. 

,  Love  and  marriage  (both  "  high  treason  ") 
You  perfect  in  one  short  season. 
"  Arnault,"  and  "  Corelli "  too, 
Yield,  at  once,  the  palm  to  you 

In  their  art. 

Pupils  of  a  month  or  so 
You  instruct  in  all  you  know, 
And  your  concerts  prove,  in  Autumn, 


TO    THE    BOBOLINK.  79 

How  successfully  you  've  taught  'qm 
In  each  part. 

First,  three  short  eccentric  quirks, 
Then  fourteen  spasmodic  jerks, 
And  now,  gushing  forth  amain, 
Comes  that  wild,  voluptuous  strain, 

Like  a  Polka  measure. 
Sweet,  continuous  it  flows, 
Gathering  richness  as  it  goes, 
A  melodious  avalanche ! 
Which  «  Rossini,"  «  Weber,"  "  Planche," 

Would  esteem  a  treasure. 

Mocking-bird  *  doth  ne'er  essay 
To  repeat  thy  wondrous  ky, 


*  It  is  a  fact  indisputable,  that  the  "  Mocking-bird"  cannot 
imitate  the  note  of  the  "  Bobolink."  It  is  asserted,  moreover, 
that  he  pines  in  silence  if  within  hearing  of  that  marvellous 
tone  which  thus  defies  his  art.  —  H.  J.  S. 


80  TO    THE    BOBOLINK. 

Though  he  ponder  e'er  so  long 
Upon  thy  metallic  song, 

Listens  he  in  vain. 
Following  a  mountain  sprite 
Down  a  rocky  steep,  at  night, 
Would  involve  no  surer  fate 
Than  the  attempt  to  imitate 

That  melodious  rain. 

Quaint  and  curious  little  singer, 
Winged,  aerial  Swiss  bell-ringer, 
Be  it  sunshine,  cloud,  or  rain, 
That  same  liquid,  wild  refrain 

Dances  o'er  us. 
Yet  no  mortal  that  I  've  seen, 
(Good  authority  I  mean,) 
Though  he  claim  to  comprehend 
All  the  solos  ever  penned, 

Can  translate  that  chorus. 


81 


I 

TO    .      A    CAROL. 


You  bid  me  write,  lady !  unconscious,  I  deem, 
How  cold  and  unmeaning  the  numbers  will 
be, 

Unless  thy  pure  Spirit  preside  o'er  the  dream, 
Inspiring  the  bard  by  some  token  from  thee- 

Give  thou  but  a  look,  or  a  wave  of  the  hand, 
To  thy  suppliant  here,  Jt  will  inspire  him 

more 
Than  a  wreath  from  the  haughtiest  Nine  in 

the  land. 
O  kindle  mine  Altar !     I  pray,  I  implore  ! 

6 


82  A   CAROL. 


A  glance !   Blessed  Sunbeam  !    No  longer  un 
known 
The  Poet  shall  languish.    No  more  shall  be 

hung 
The  harp  on   the   willows,   to   murmur  and 

moan, 
No  longer  neglected,  no  longer  un  trung. 

If  I  touch  but  the  chords,  the  wild  measure 

outflows, 

Like  the  lark's  liquid  lay  through  the  sum 
mer  air  ringing ; 

Creations  of  Beauty  start  up  from  repose, 
And  the  Angel  of  Thought  her  sweet  incense 
is  bringing. 

As  the   Statue   of   Memnon  at  morning  re 
plies 
In  melody  soft  to  the  Sun's  earliest  smile, 


A    CAROL.  83 


My  heart,  warmed  to  life  by  the  light  of  thine 

eyes, 

In  song  would  repay  their  glad  influence 
the  while. 

Alas  for  the  Muse,  when  that  light  is  with 
drawn  ! 

How  faintly  the  fires  on  her  altar  shall  burn ! 
Her  hope,  her  existence  itself,  will  be  gone, 
When  that  bright  inspiration  has  failed  to 
return. 

As  the  mariner,  lone,  o'er  the  stormy  wave 

driven, 
Each  night  looketh  up,  from  his  home  on 

the  main, 

For  that  star  of  his  faith  to  rekindle  in  heaven, 
Thus,  lady,  I  watch  thy  bright  coming  again. 


84 


THE    LILY'S    WOOING. 


'  No  marvel  woman  should  love  flowers  ;  they  bear 
So  much  of  fanciful  similitude 
To  her  own  history." 


WITHIN  a  cozy  little  bower 
A  modest  wild-rose  bloomed  ; 

The  wings  of  every  passing  hour 

Were  by  her  breath  perfumed. 

From  out  her  scented  chalice 
The  nightingale  would  drink, 

And  the  evening  star  looked  down  on  her 

With  a  most  coquettish  wink. 


THE  LILY'S  WOOING.  85 

She  knew  the  star  was  far  too  high 

To  think  of  coming  down, 

So  she  pouted  with  her  fragrant  lip, 
And  frowned  her  thorniest  frown. 

The  moon  peeped  into  her  bower,  and  smiled 
On  her  leaves  so  bright  with  dew ; 

Oh !  she  was  as  joyous  as  Rose  could  be, 

For  nothing  of  love  she  knew. 

She  often  wished  that  some  sweet  flower 
Might  greet  her  in  the  wood, 

Might  share  her  soft,  sad  summer  nights, 

And  cheer  her  solitude. 

Yet  merrily  flew  the  hours  by, 
"When  the  Rose  was  young  in  May ; 

The  South-wind,  with  its  gentle  sigh, 

Was  rocking  her  all  the  day. 


86  THE  LILY'S  WOOING. 

The  humming-bird,  with  his  satin  wing, 
Would  fan  her  at  noontide  hour, 

And  the  butterfly  opened  his  golden  screen, 
To  shadow  the  fainting  flower. 

*  *  *  *  * 

But  the  Rose  at  last  did  dream  a  dream 

Of  a  floweret  tall  and  fair: 

Each  day  that  vision  is  still  the  theme, 
Each  night  the  dear  dream  is  there. 

\ 

No  longer  does  she  joy  to  hear 

The  pine-bird's  rippling  tone,  — 

She  starts  if  the  humming-bird  come  near, 
She  weeps  if  left  alone.  *  N 

Day  after  day  does  she  languish  on, 
Poor,  love-lorn  Queen  of  Flowers ! 
Looking  for  that  dear  mystery 
Which  haunts  her  dreamy  hours. 


THE  LILY'S  WOOING.  87 

In  vain  the  evening  breeze  may  sigh 
The  trembling  trees  among ; 

In  vain  the  wild-bird's  melody, — 

She  heedeth  not  his  song. 

The  moonlight  is  too  sad  for  her, 
Too  gay  the  sunny  glare ; 

And  life  is  but  a  dreary  blank, 

Unless  that  dream  be  there. 

*  *  *  *  * 

'T  is  now  far  on  in  the  month  of  June, 
A  dark  and  stormy  night ! 

In  mockery  of  the  shrouded  moon, 

The  lightning  quivers  bright. 

The  clouds  upon  the  tempest  borne 

In  mad  confusion  ride ; 

From  her  stock  the  delicate  Rose  is  torn, 
And  dropped  on  a  rushing  tide. 


88 


Far  away !  through  ripple,  and  eddy,  and  foam, 
She  glides  on  the  river's  breast, 

Till  she  finds  herself  clasped  in  a  soft  embrace, 

And  gently  lulled  to  rest. 

O  for  one  breath  from  her  own  loved  vale, 
One  sunny  wild-wood  gleam ! 

One  sad,  delicious,  final  glimpse 

Of  that  lost  precious  dream  ! 

Trembling  she  lay  through  that  stormy  night, 
Unconscious  of  the  power 

Which  held  her  safe  on  the  waves  so  light, 

A  poor,  heart-broken  flower. 

***** 

The  storm  has  ceased  ;  through  parting  clouds 
The  sparkling  stars  are  peeping : 

In  the  graceful  folds  of  a  Lily  pale 

A  languid  Rose  lies  sleeping. 


THE  LILY'S  WOOING.  89 

Sweet  smile !     Some  cherished  memory 
Mingles  with  her  repose  : 

Zephyr,  perhaps,  is  murmuring 

Soft  Arias  to  the  Rose. 

She  wakes !     Then  asks  the  tall,  pale  flower, 
In  sad  and  gentle  tone, 

"  Why  hast  thou  left  thy  scented  bower, 

Unguided,  and  alone?  " 

*  *  *  *  * 

The  story  of  the  midnight  storm 
Is  told  with  such  sweet  grief, 

The  Lily  presses  her  yielding  form, 

And  kisses  her  blushing  leaf. 

Then  looks  he  down  in  the  waters  clear, 
And  murmurs  the  Lily  pale, 

"  A  bird  hath  sung  of  a  lovely  Rose, 

Far  off  in  a  shady  vale. 


90  THE  LILY'S  WOOING. 

"  He  sang  as  of  the  fairest  thing 
This  world  of  ours  could  show,  — 

A  wanderer,  strayed  from  Paradise, 

To  this  cold  earth  below." 

Oft  have  I  prayed  that  flower  to  see, 
Doubting  the  love-sick  bird  sang  true. 

No  more  I  doubt.     He  sang  of  thee  ! 

Sweet  Vision  of  light  and  dew ! 

"  O  wilt  thou  leave  thy  forest  dear, 
The  bird,  and  the  scented  vine, 

To  dwell  with  me  on  the  waters  clear  ? 

Loved  Rose  !  wilt  thou  be  mine  ?  " 

With  bended  stalk,  and  leaf  downcast, 

Trembling  the  fair  one  lay. 

She  never  had  been  wooed  before : 
What  could  the  poor  Rose  say? 


THE  LILY'S  WOOING.  91 

"  Fear  not!  "  the  ardent  Lily  said, 
Clasping  her  slender  zone, 

"  But  rest  thou  here.     Be  thou  my  queen! 

Come,  share  my  broad  green  throne ! " 

"  Beneath  the  same  glad  summer  sky, 
Rocked  on  the  same  blue  wave, 

We  '11  live,  and  love  our  years  away, 

And  find  at  last  one  grave  !  " 

Now  deeper  blushed  the  modest  Rose, 

At  the  warmth  of  the  Lily's  press. 

By  the  light  of  the  stars,  at  twilight's  close, 
She  whispered  a  perfumed  "Yes!" 


SONNET.  — OCEAN    TWILIGHT. 


SAD,  moaning  Ocean !  o'er  whose  sobbing  breast 

Golden   winged   moonbeams    hover    trem 
blingly, 
As  the  first  star  stoops  to  the  shadowy  West, 

And  Silence  prints  her  kiss  on  lawn  and  lea, 
Wrap  me,  in  that  sweet  influence  which  of  yore 

Folded  my  spirit  in  its  cool  embrace, 
While  dreamily  I  stood  upon  the  shore, 

Watching  the  panting  waves,  in  emulous  race, 


OCEAN    TWILIGHT.  93 

Each  in  its  turn  exhausted  reach  the  goal ; 

Leaving  its  mark  of  foam  upon  the  sand. 
It  waked  my  heart,  where  now  it  stirs  my  soul, 
That  wrestling  wave  upon  the  lonely  strand. 
So  much  resernbleth  it  the  mad,  unmeaning 

strife, 

Which  ends,  like  that,  in  foam,  upon  the  shore 
of  life. 


94 


TO  THE   EVENING  STAR. 


BRIDE  of  the  summer  night ! 

Over  the  dewy  mountain  shining  clear, 
So  eloquent  of  love  and  light, 

Once  more  I  greet  thee  here. 

,.% !  . 

Here,  where  in  early  time  I  felt 

The  hallowed  impulse  of  the  heart's  first 

dream, 
And  I,  in  silent  adoration,  knelt 

Beneath  thy  chastening  Beam. 


TO    THE    EVENING    STAR.  95 

Long  years  have  passed,  sweet  Vision ! 

Since  those  delicious  hours, 

% 

When  from  thy  bower  Elysian 
I  plucked  poetic  flowers,  — 

And,  weaving  garlands,  idly  deemed 

That  Time  would  dim  their  freshness  never, 

But  that  all  radiant  as  they  seemed 

In  their  young  bloom  they  would  be  ever. 


Alas !  the  hand  is  weary, 

The  eye  that  watched  grows  dim, 
The  memories  of  dear  voices  lost 

Chant  their  funereal  hymn. 


The  forest  shade  seems  deeper, 
There  's  more  mist  upon  the  hill, 


96  TO    THE    EVENING    STAR.  , 

The  paths  down  hill  are  steeper, 
And  will  soon  be  steeper  still ! 

***** 

How  simple  is  life's  story ! 

Moon  !  ruddy,  rosy,  radiant  light ! 
Love,  passion,  hope,  fame,  glory ! 

Clouds,  shadows,  sober  twilight,  night ! 

Like  spectres  do  we  pass 

Across  a  flowerless  and  deserted  land, 
Watching  the  turning  of  the  glass, 

The  steady  ebbing  of  the  down-flowing  sand. 

But  thou  still  shinest  brightly, 

As  on  that  sad-remembered,  halcyon  even  ; 
Still  dost  thou  wander  nightly, 

Fulfilling    thy    same    glorious    destiny    in 
heaven ! 


TO    THE    EVENING    STAR.  97 

And  thus,  to  other  hearts,  like  mine, 

Throughout  thy  future  unrecorded  years, 

Thy  calm  and  holy  light  shall  shine 

Upon  youth's  ardent  hopes,  and  manhood's 
spectral  fears. 


98 


t 

SONNET    TO    THE    DIV'L! 


DEAR  Satan !  we  've  been  anxious  to  address 

you, 

But  hardly  had  the  boldness  to  approach. 
Whether  't  would  do  to  greet  you  with  "  God 

bless  you ! " 
Were  more  than  doubtful ;  and  then  how  to 

broach 

The  subject,  which  has  ne'er  been  quite  ex 
plained,  — 

Your  horns  and  tail  ?  —  concerning  which 
we  're  curious. 


SONNET    TO    THE    DIV'L  !  99 

However,  this  first  step  is  one  point  gained. 

Perceiving  that  you  're  not  so  devilish  furious, 
Respectfully  we  ask  how  long  your  tail  is. 

Should  the   descriptions  of  you,  in  Hell's 

History, 
Be  taken  strictly,  or  cum  grano  sails  ? 

For  Heaven's  sake,  unfold  the  awful  mys 
tery! 
Is  it  a  fact,  as  we  have  understood, 

That  brimstone  pate  is  your  only  food  ? 


100 


LINES 


SUGGESTED  BY  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  ATLANTIC,  SUPPOSED 
TO  HAVE  BEEN  LOST. 


SING  not  the  song  of  triumph, 
Shout  not  the  shout  of  glee, 

But  deeper  let  the  throbbing 
Of  thy  soul's  expression  be. 

Bow  to  that  Power  Supernal, 
Who  held  her  trembling  form 

In  the  hollow  of  his  hand  upright 
Through  the  unrelenting  storm. 


LINES.  101 


Shake  off  all  worldly  feeling, 

Forget  all  worldly  ties, 
Until  thy  spirit  holdeth 

Communion  with  the  skies. 
/ 

Humbly  shalt  thou  acknowledge 
Her  strength  were  all  in  vain, 

To  struggle  with  the  elements, 
To  battle  with  the  main ! 

O,  higher  were  the  sailor's  hopes, 
When  the  demon  of  the  gale 

Shouted  amid  the  shrieking  ropes, 
And  shook  the  tattered  sail ! 

She  did  not  brave  the  tempest, 
She  merely  lived,  to  prove 

That  mightier  than  the  tempest 
Was  the  power  of  holy  Love. 


102  LINES. 


Her  strength  !     'T  were  less  than  weakness, 

To  test  the  Ocean's  might; 
With  its  mountain  surges  wrestling, 

Through  the  melancholy  night. 

Bawbles  and  toys  her  engine, 

Her  pilots,  and  her  helm, 
Needing  but  one  unguided  wave 

To  strangle  and  o'erwhelm. 

Sing  not  the  song  of  triumph, 

Shout  not  the  shout  of  glee, 
But  deeper  let  the  throbbing         ja *r 

Of  thy  soul's  expression  be. 


103 


THE     SERENADE. 


THE  other  night,  at  half-past  two  o'clock, 
(People  who  dine  at  twelve  would  call  it 

morning,) 
I  was  awakened  by  a  sudden  shock, 

Almost  as  fearful  as  the  startling  warning 
The  prophet  Camel  gives  his  Arab  master 
Of  the  Simoom's  dread  coming. 

I  was  dreaming 
Of  rosy  lips,  and  necks  of  alabaster. 


104  THE    SERENADE. 


Love  and  myself  deliciously  were  scheming 
All  sorts  of  prettinesses  in  a  bower,  when, 

hark! 
The    horn,    asthmatic,   groans    its   dismal 

warner, 

Like  a  huge  giant  yawning  in  the  dark. 
Cupid,  farewell!     They  're  coming  round 

the  corner. 

To  bring  forth  sounds  so  monstrously  heretic, 
Night  must  have  wed  the  Mastodon  Emetic! 


105 


"GOD  SAVE   THE   COMMONWEALTH!" 


"  GOD  save  the  Commonwealth  "  !    We  need 
Some  pious  pater  nosier  in  these  days, 

When  every  jackass  munches  his  own  creed, 
And  swears  by  thorns  and  thistles,  while  he 
brays. 

The  holy  parson  to  his  godly  flock 

Doth  preach  sedition  ;  nor  can  rest  at  ease 

Unless  she  deal  the  Bible  a  hard  knock, 
Or  utter  some  such  homilies  as  these:  — 


106        "GOD  SAVE  THE  COMMONWEALTH!" 

"  Ye  think  the  miracles  are  true,  then,  do  ye  ? 

And  ye  believe  them  to  this  hour?     Poor 

fools ! 
How  often  must  I  put  this  thesis  to  ye,  — 

Religion  must  not  be  behind  the  schools  ! 

"  D'  ye  think  that  Balaam's  ass  in   Hebrew 

spoke 

As  fluently  as  't  were  his  mother  tongue  ? 
Or  d'  ye  think,  with  me,  't  was  but  a  joke 
Palmed  off  upon  the  world  when  it  was 
young, 

"  And  there  was  dearth  of  fancy  ?    Trust  ye  not 
To  aught  but  what  your  'higher  law'  in 
spires  ! 

Trample  the  Constitution  under  foot ! 

And  from  my  altar  light  your  fading  fires  ! " 


107 


THE    PILOT    'S    THERE! 

A  RESPONSE   TO  "  ROCKS   AHEAD  ! "    BY   MARTIN   F.  TUPPER, 
IN   THE   TRANSCRIPT,  APRIL   18,    1851. 

"  ROCKS  Ahead !  "     We  need  no  warnings. 

Though  we  trust  thou  art  sincere  ; 

.t 
Taking  kindly  thy  intention, 

We  return  to  thee  thy  fear. 
Urged  by  a  resistless  impulse, 

Thou  hast  answered  to  the  call ; 
With  prophetic  finger  pointing 
To  the  phantom  on  the  wall. 

Steady  shall  our  gallant  vessel 
Mount  o'er  every  troubled  sea, 


108  THE    PILOT  'S    THERE  ! 

With  her  sails  untorn  and  stainless, 
And  her  pennon  floating  free  ! 
Safely  through  the  angry  surges 

She  her  precious  weight  shall  bear, 
Looking  calmly  on  her  peril, 
While  she  sees  her  pilot  there  ! 

Ever  faithful  to  his  duty, 

Constant  ever  at  his  post, 
He  will  rescue  her  from  danger,      * 
Thou'gh  she  may  be  tempest-tost. 

On  the  "  rocks  "  she  will  not  founder. 

Fear  not,  Saxon,  nor  despair: 
She  shall  bring  her  priceless  cargo 
Safely  home.     «  The  Pilot's  there  ! " 

Time,  with  weary  ages  laden. 
Shall  behold  her  flag  unfurled, 


THE    PILOT  'S    THERE  !  109 

And  the  arms  of  Freedom  stretching 
To  the  verges  of  the  world. 
While  the  eagle  from  his  eyrie, 

As  he  plumes  his  radiant  wings, 
Looks  in  vain  for  those  dominions 
Which  were  the  sport  of  kings. 

When  our  "  Pilot,"  crowned  with  glory, 

Sleepeth  in  his  honored  grave, 
Still  shall  ride  the  gallant  vessel 
Safely,  o'er  the  stormiest  wave ; 
For  his  spirit*  shall  be  with  her, 
Shall  protect  her  everywhere  ; 
And  his  influence,  immortal, 
Ever  be  her  "  Pilot",  there ! 


*  The  wailing  of  a  nation  has  gone  forth  since  the  publica 
tion  of  this  faint  tribute  to  the  Hon.  Daniel  Webster,  and  the 
prophecy  has  become  a  sad  historic  fact.  Admiration  for  the 
living  is  changed  to  reverence  for  the  dead. 


110 


LINES 

TO  AN  AEOLIAN  HARP  IN  MY  WINDOW. 

SOFTLY  responding  to  the  Etesian  wind, 
Comes  a  faint  melody ;  as  if  from  far 

Echoed  the  chime  harmonious,  which  doth  bind 
In  choral  chain  planet  and  moon  and  star. 

It  is  my  Wind-Harp,  at  its  evening  prayer  !j 
No  mortal  hand  could  win  such  gentle  tone 

From  those  frail  wires :  some  tiny  sprite  is  there, 
Uttering  his  pensive  memories,  sad  and  lone. 


LINES.  Ill 


Hark!  now  a  rapid,  changeful,  joyous  meas 
ure; 

A  troop  of  Fairies  o'er  the  chords  is  stray 
ing. 

Wooing  the  Harp's  vibrations  back  to  pleas 
ure, 
By  the  wild  beauty  of  their  roundelaying. 

Now  doth  some  low,  half-sobbing,  tender  theme, 
Of  melancholy  meaning,  gently  grieving, 

Die  ere  half-whispered,  —  a  delicious  dream 
Of  "  music,  moonlight,  love,  and  flowers  " 
weaving. 

Each  night  an  angel  tunes  those  trembling 
chords ; 

And  Zephyr,  stooping  as  he  hastes  along, 
Doth  breathe  upon  them  little  scented  words, 

Which  the  fond  Harp  returns  to  him  in  song. 


112  LINES. 


Sweet  Seraph !  dwelling  in  those  plaintive 
strings, 

Ne'er  canst  thou  weary  with  thy  sad  refrain. 
Wave  at  my  window  thy  melodious  wings ; 

Wrap  me  in  that  delirious  trance  again  ! 

Light  up  these  shadows  with  the  sunshine  gone, 
Transport  me  back  to  youth's  delightful  shore! 

No  answer  save  that  melancholy  moan  ? 
The  wind  is  lulled  to  rest :  my  dream  is  o'er! 


113 


MISS    SNOW    TO    HER    PERSECUTORS. 


The  following  lines  were  written  in  answer  to  a  series  of  poetical  slura 
addressed  to  "Miss  Snow,"  signed  "Frost,"  "White,"  and  "Hail," 
published  in  the  Boston  Post. 


A  VALIANT  man  you  are  in  fact, 

A  gallant  Colonel,  Mr.  "  Post,"     ' 
To  see  a  poor,  lone  girl  attacked, 
And  barbecued,  and  hewed,  and  hacked, 
By  such  a  rabble  host ! 

Who  says  there  's  nothing  in  a  name, 
When  every  rascal,  high  or  low, 

8 


114  MISS    SNOW   TO    HER    PERSECUTORS. 

Or  halt,  or  blind,  or  deaf,  or  lame, 

Asserts  his  right  of  making  game 

Of  me,  poor  spinster  Snow  ? 

First,  Mr.  "  Frost "  must  try  to  sing 

To  his  harp's  frozen  wire, 
A  poor,  untuned,  discordant  thing ; 
A  voiceless  bird  with  broken  wing, 

A  melancholy  lyre. 

However,  I  can  pardon  him, 

If  he  repent  in  time, 
(Befdre  I  tear  him  limb  from  limb,) 
For  "  Frost "  is  but  the  synonyme 

With  cold  and  cheerless  rhyme. 

But  for  the  rest,  as  "  White  "  and  «  Hail," 

Who  use  so  much  mock  feeling ; 
Who  talk  so  soft,  and  look  so  pale, 


MISS    SNOW   TO    HER    PERSECUTORS.  115 

I 

Who  hold  bad  jokes  up  by  the  tail, 
Until  they  set  them  squealing,  — 

I  '11  sit  upon  their  window  pane  ; 
And,  when  they  're  fast  asleep, 
I  '11  shake  with  all  my  might  and  main. 
They  shall  not  even  doze  again  ; 
All  night  rny  watch  I  ;11  keep. 

I  'm  journeying  to  the  northward  now, 

There  to  remain  until  December, 
But  I  have  made  a  solemn  vow, 
Which  shall  be  kept ;  and  one,  I  trow, 
Which  they  will  long  remember. 

My  footsteps  shall  approach  so  light, 
Their  wary  ears  in  vain  shall  listen 
And  they  shall  cower  with  affright, 


116  MISS    SNOW   TO    HER  PERSECUTORS. 

As,  hurrying  past  them,  in  the  night, 
My  white  robes  glisten ! 

My  vengeance  shall  be  sure  as  swift, 

My  purpose  fixed,  there  's  no  delaying. 
From  out  my  cloudy  home  once  rift, 
Before  they  can  suspect  my  drift, 
I  '11  be  among  them  sleighing. 


117 


TO    BOSIO. 


SOFTLY  flows  the  limpid  measure 
Of  the  streamlet's  voice  so  clear ; 

Wandering  through  mosaic  meadows, 
Freshening  all  it  floweth  near. 

Here  reflects  it  golden  sunshine 

From  its  bright,  transparent  breast ; 

Here,  within  some  quiet  eddy, 
Woos  the  calm  blue  sky  to  rest 


118  TO   BOSIO. 


Now  with  low,  sad  tone  outmurmuring, 
Like  the  chanting  of  a  prayer 

From  the  Fairies'  dim  cathedral, 

Hid  among  the  wild-flowers  there,  — 

Whispering  now  faint,  dream-like  music, 
From  some  choir  far  beyond, 

Warbling  forth  the  sweet  Te  Deum, 
While  the  tiny  priests  respond. 

Sparkling  now,  as  on  it  rusheth 
O'er  the  laughing,  dimpling  shoal ; 

Winking  to  the  merry  sunshine, 
Joying  in  its  iincontrol ;  — 

Jumping  o'er  the  polished  pebbles, 

Playfully  the  wavelets  flow, 
Waltzing  with  the  water-lily 

In  the  shady  pool  below. 


TO    BOSIO.  119 


Wheresoe'er  the  streamlet  wandereth, 

Beauty  follows  in  its  path  ; 
And  the  emerald  grass-way  showeth 

The  sweet  influence  it  hath  ;  — 

Giving  joy,  where'er  it  glideth, 
Unto  weary  bird  and  flower ; 

Modestly,  the  while,  unconscious 
Of  its  unpretending  power. 

Thus  in  gladness  ever  floweth, 
With  its  gush  of  tender  tone, 

Thy  clear  stream  of  song  melodious, 
Fraught  with  beauty  all  its  own. 

Now,  as  from  the  heart's  glad  fountain, 
Comes  a  strain  of  joy  and  love; 

Like  the  lark's  pure  lay  outwelling 
From  some  tinted  cloud  above;  — 


120  I         TO    BOSIO. 


Now,  as  if  the  soul  in  sorrow 
Breathed  in  song  its  earnest  prayer ; 

While  the  soft,  delicious  cadence 
Seems  to  consecrate  the  air. 

Fare  thee  well !  delightful  minstrel, 
Bless  the  power  God  hath  given ; 

This  may  be  but  the  rehearsal 
For  thy  ministry  in  heaven. 


121 


SONNET. —  SUMMER    RAIN. 


WHO  hath  not  poetized  thee,  Summer  Rain  ? 
Both  high  and  low,  patrician  and  plebeian. 
Then  why  not  I  take  up  the  glad  refrain, 
And   canonize  thee  with   my  humble 

Paean? 
Not  for  the   good  thou  doest  to  trees 

and  flowers, 

Which  scorching  suns  have  of  their  bloom 
bereft ; 


122  SONNET. SUMMER    RAIN. 

But  that  thou  clean'st  these  filthy  streets  of 

ours, 

Of  what  the  Common  Councilmen  have  left. 
Productive  too  thine  influence  here,  as  well  as 
'Mid  rural  vales.    Soon  as  thou  comest  down 
Upsprings,  at  once,  a  crop  of  green  um 
brellas  ! 
Like  mushrooms,  sprouting  out  all  over 

town. 

Merry  to  me  thy  mad  and  muddy  mutter, 
As  thou  goest  gurgling  through  the  grumbling 
gutter. 


123 


SEPARATION. 


THOU  art  lost  to  me  for  ever ! 

We  must  part,  —  whate'er  the  pain. 
A  blight  hath  touched  my  passion-flower: 

It  may  not  bloom  again. 

O'er  the  surface  of  the  dial 

Should  there  pass  one  summer  cloud, 
The  moment,  born  in  sunshine, 

Lieth  cold  within  its  shroud. 


124  SEPARATION. 


Like  that  cloud  upon  the  dial 
Is  a  doubt  across  Love's  way ; 

He  would  give  up  all  life's  future 
For  that  one  lost  sunny  ray. 

One  shadow  on  the  present, 
In  the  chain  one  tiny  break, 

It  will  widen  to  infinity, 
Like  a  circle  on  a  lake. 

O'er  Hope's  moonlit  summer  ocean, 

Vainly  wouldst  thou  look,  once  more 
i 

To  see  Love's  frail  bark  returning  : 
Broken  is  his  slender  oar. 

Hidden  from  him  is  that  starbeam, 
By  whose  ray,  so  sad  and  soft, 

Seeing  naught  but  joy  before  him, 
He  hath  wandered  forth  so  oft. 


SEPARATION.  125 


Echoes  of  remembered  hours 

Wander  pensive  through  my  soul ; 

As  through  shadowy  vales  in  summer 
Sighs  the  bell's  funereal  toll. 

Thou  art  lost  to  me  for  ever ! 

We  must  part,  —  whate'er  the  pain. 
A  blight  hath  touched  my  passion-flower 

It  will  not  bloom  again. 


126 


IF  any  one  doubts,  in  these  transcendental,  air-nav 
igating,  spirit-knocking,  spontaneous-table-moving, 
caloric-engine-making,  perpetual-motion-discovering 
days,  the  existence  of  the  Fairies,  I  mourn  for  his 
material  for  happiness. 

For  my  own  part,  I  confess  the  weakness.  'T  is 
a  delicious  reality,  lying  upon  the  dewy  grass  of  a 
summer's  night,  with  my  heart  so  full  of  moonlight 
as  to  leave  no  resting-place  for  the  two-and-two- 
make-four-isms  of  our  sordid  planet,  the  certainty 
that  I  hear  tiny  voices,  and  listen  to  the  hardly  pos 
sible  plashings  of  infinitesimal  feet  dancing  upon  the 
moist  leaves.  Or  that  I  feel  some  indivisible  cur 
rent  of  air  created  by  the  swinging  of  some  little 
fellow  from  a  nodding  wild-flower.  To  me,  there 
fore,  much  of  interest  attaches  to 


THE  FAIRY'S  INVOCATION.  127 


THE    FAIRY'S    INVOCATION. 

WHEN  the  bashful  twilight  wanders 

Through  the  drowsy  dale,  — 
When  the  breeze-kissed  night-flower,  waking, 

Lifts  her  dewy  veil,  — 
Come  thou  to  our  woodland  dance ! 

Where  the  gold-moss  spreading 
Gently  bends  her  velvet  stock 

To  our  lightsome  treading. 

\ 
Listen  !  thou  down-weighed  by  care, 

'Pressed  by  burden  weary; 
Holy  lesson  mayst  thou  learn 

From  a  simple  Fairy. 
When  thy  shattered  spirit  faints, 

Desolate  and  lonely ; 
When  the  future's  clouded  glass 

Mirrors  sorrows  only ;  — 


128  THE  FAIRY'S  INVOCATION. 

Come  unto  the  silent  wood ! 

Let  the  fresh  air  woo  thee  ; 
In  the  cool,  deep  solitude, 

God  shall  whisper  to  thee. 
Words  shall  tremble  on  thy  lips, 

Long,  long  since  forsaken. 
Thy  dark  soul,  from  its  eclipse, 

Shall  to  light  awaken ! 

Leave  thy  sordid  thoughts  behind: 

All  thy  worldly  lore 
Is  not  worth  one  purer  thought 

From  the  days  of  yore. 
Blissful  memory  shall  be 

Joy's  dear  satellite ; 
Visions,  which  for  years  had  flown, 

Shall  come  back  to-night. 

Come !  when  timid  twilight  wanders 
O'er  the  drowsy  dale, 


129 


And  the  star-wooed  night-flower,  blushing, 
Draws  her  dewy  veil. 

Thou  shalt  ken  the  simple  truths 

Which  thy  childhood  cherished ; 
Thou  shalt  dream  of  simple  things, 

World-despised,  half  perished. 
•Then  thy  spirit  shall  rejoice 

O'er  its  broken  chain, 
And  thy  mother's  holy  voice 

Sing  to  thee  again. 


130 


A    PROVERB    AMENDED. 


"  NECESSITY  's  the  mother  of  Invention  "  ;  — 

The  proverb  reads  well,  but  lacks  common 

sense. 
Necessity  may  have  the  best  intention, 

Yet  all  her  throes  conceive  but  impotence. 
The  captive,  in  his  dreams,  may  prate  of  bliss, 

The  slave  in  chains  may  boast  of  happy  hours, 
A  fool  beseech  an  iceberg  for  a  kiss, 

A  Laplander  talk  learnedly  of  flowers  ; 


A    PROVERB   AMENDED.  131 

But  all  combined,  Laplander,  captive,  fool, 
Approach  not  the  sublime  absurdity, 

Fit  only  for  an  idiot's  Sunday  school, 

That  need  could  bring  forth  aught  but  misery. 

Necessity  's  the  father  of  despair ! 

The  Devil's  shadow  o'er  a  world  of  care. 


132 


TO    THE    HONORABLE 

IN  PROOF  OP  MY  APPRECIATION  OF  THE  PATRIOTIC  AND 
DISINTERESTED  MOTIVES  WHICH  PROMPTED  HIS  SLAN 
DER  OF  DANIEL  WEBSTER. 

POOR,  weak  adventurer !     Like  the  insect  fly 
Thy  simple,  suicidal  course  doth  seem, 

Doomed,  for  thy  perilous  attack,  to  die  ; 

While,  calm  and  steady,  still  shines  forth  the 
beam 

Thou  wouldst  extinguish.    From  thy  legal  shelf, 
With  contrite  spirit,  take  the  penal  code, 

And  pass  a  righteous  judgment  on  thyself: 
'  T  will  ease  thy  "  conscience  "  of  a  heavy  load. 


TO    THE    HONORABLE    .  133 

Did  fiery,  fierce  ambition  lure  thee  on 
To  climb  and  occupy  the  eagle's  nest  ? 

By  thee  that  eyrie  never  can  be  won ; 

Nor  can  thine  arrows  e'er  disturb  his  rest. 

As  well  might  some  vain-glorious  straw  essay 
To  check  Niagara's  resistless  flow ; 

The  stream,  majestic,  holds  its  mighty  way ; 
The  straw  goes  headlong  to  the  scum  below. 

What  couldst  thou  wish,  expect,  or  hope  to 

gain, 

By  this  so  feeble  yet  malign  attack  ? 
The  noble  ship,  which  breasts  the  adverse  main, 
Marks  not  the  weed  which  lies  across  her 
1     track ;  — 

But  on  she  moveth,  battling  storm  and  tide, 
Following  the  compass  with  her  untired  wing, 


134  TO    THE    HONORABLE 


Nor  heeds  the  barnacle  which,  at  her  side, 
The  drowning  weed  maliciously  may  fling. 

Go  back  to  Education  !     Get  re-stored 

With  school-boy  classics ;  for  thou  mayst, 
with  profit. 

Rejoin  that  social  clique,  well  named  the  bored, 
Whilst  thou  remainedst  Secretary  of  it. 

Keep  thy  frail  shallop  within  hail  from  shore; 

Let  honesty  of  purpose  be  thy  plan  ; 
Study  thy  Bible !  go,  and  sin  no  more ! 

And  "  give  the  world  assurance  of  a  man." 


135 


APRIL. 


HERALD  of  fly  the  first ! 

"Who,  for  a  moment,  wakes  and  flaps  his 

wings, 
Then  hurries  back  to  dust, 

As  if  he  had  affected  marvellous  things,  — 
April,  all  hail ! 
Ducks  practise  novel  quacks 

With  German-sounding,  awful  variations, 
And  make  Greek-looking  tracks 

In  the  soft  mud  ;  with  quizzical  gyrations, 
Shaking  the  tail. 


136  APRIL. 


Satire  on  the  sex  so  fair! 

It  glads  my  heart  to  see  thee  once  again. 
Half  hope,  and  half  despair ; 

Now  a  stray   sunbeam,  now  a  shower  of 

rain. 
Give  me  thy  cool,  moist  hand. 

Old  flirt,  how  piquant  is  thy  oddity, 
Despotic,  and  yet  not  malicious  fellow,  — 

From  morn  till  night  no  moral  certainty, 
From    hour   to   hour,  if  sun-shade    or    um 
brella 

Be  in  demand. 

Amalgam  curious, 

Thy  yearly  frolic  very  soon  begins ; 
When  exquisites  look  furious, 

As  your  prime-minister  addresses  them  (in 

thins), 
The  cool  sea-breeze. 


APRIL.  137 


School-girls  to  show  their  shapes 

Doff  the  redoubtable,  thick  "Bay  State" 

shawl, 
To  titter  in  lace  capes. 

You  draw  at  sight  on  Boreas  for  a  squall, 
When  lo!  or  fat  or  lean,  or  short  or  tall, 
Poor  things !  they  wheeze. 

April,  precarious, 

Your  race  absurd  will  very  soon  be  run. 
How  uniform  your  pranks,  and  yet  how  vari 
ous! 

Can't  you  afford  a  little  extra  sun  ? 
Attempt  it,  pray  ! 
We  know  your  reign  is  short, 

Sometimes,  indeed,  ridiculously  so, 
Often  not  much  more  than  would  fill  a  quart. 

These  antics  we  endure,  because  we  know 
What  must  come,  May. 


138  APRIL. 


April !  go  on,  go  on  ! 

Manage,  in  your  own  way,  your  own  affairs ; 
Smile  half  a  minute  and  then  frown; 

And  who  the  deuce  d'  you  imagine  cares 
For  such  stale  fun  ? 
Pardon  !  One  thing  I  had  forgotten  ;  — 

To  beg  that  you  would  send  old  people  warn 
ing 
(Who  've  dropped  their  flannel,  and  adopted 

cotton) 

Of  that  unmitigated  breezer, 
Which  turns,  at  once,  a  bright,  love-making 

morning 

Into  an  overcoat-requiring  sneezer. 
I  've  done. 


139 


THE    LOVER'S    REVIEW. 


ONE  calm  summer  night,  by  a  magical  spell, 
I  summoned  around  me,  with  manifold  fears, 

From  city  and  hamlet,  from  dingle  and  dell, 
The  wildering  Loves  of  my  earlier  years. 

The  lights  and  the  shadows,  alternate,  which 

stole 

Through  my  feverish   brain,  the   delicious 
alarm, 


140  THE  LOVER'S  REVIEW. 

The  hopes,  and  the  fears,  which  invaded  my  soul, 
As  I  anxiously  watched  the  results  of  my 
charm,  — 

Were  vainly  imagined.    The  miser,  who  dreams 
Of  those  innocent  hours,  in  boyhood's  fresh 

day, 
When  his    heart   but  reflected  the   sunniest 

beams, 

And  no  sin-darkened  cloud  threw  a  shade 
o'er  his  way,  — 

When,  untrammelled  by  worldliness,  happy 

and  free, 
With  no  passion  to  cairn,  and  no  sorrow  to 

tine,  — 

Unfettered  by  gold,  —  a  faint  emblem  may  be 
Of  my  exquisite  joy  with  those  young  loves 
of  mine. 


THE  LOVER'S  REVIEW.  141 

The  west-wind  was  fanning  the  twilight,  — 

't  was  June  ; 
With   their  dewy  lids   closed,  the   young 

flowers  lay  sleeping 

In  scented  repose  'neath  the  light  of  the  moon ; 
While  Cupid  and  I  our  sweet  vigils  were 
keeping. 

At  length  a  low  murmur  of  voices  is  heard, 
Like  the  languishing  air  amid  blossoming 

trees, 

Or  the  soft  cooing  notes  of  the  Paradise-bird, 
When  her  nest  is  disturbed  by  the  wanton 
ing  breeze. 

In    a   phalanx   of  loveliness   beaming    they 

come, 

Arrayed    in   the    garb    of   those     halcyon 
hours, 


142  THE  LOVER'S  REVIEW. 

When  the  heart,  half  delirious,  ventured  to 

roam 

Like  a  wandering  bee  through  a  garden  of 
flowers. 

There  were  —  pardon  me,  Cupid !     I  will  not 

disclose  : 
'T  would  be  treason  to  name  them,  —  unjust 

to  thy  cause. 
Let  them  rest,  in  their  loveliness,  "under  the 

rose  » ; — 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  infringe  on  your  laws. 

They  stayed  but  a  moment, sweet  May-morning 

friends ! 
Yes,  one  lingers  yet,  with  a  wreath  on  her 

brow 

Of  chastened  and  holy  affection,  which  lends 
The  light  of  the  Past  to  the  shadows  of  Now. 


143 


Bright  visions  of  beauty  !  how  closely  ye  twine 
Round  the  reason  of  man,  when  the  fancy 

hath  flown, 

As  tendrils  thrown  out  by  the  fond  circling  vine 
Still  cling  to  the  tree,  although  withered  and 
lone ! 

As  the  Lyre  .ZEolian,  impassioned  and  fond, 
How  gentle  soever  the  impress  may  be, 

To  the  kiss  of  the  Zephyr  will  sighing  respond, 
When  Zephyr  hath  wandered  away  to  the 
sea,  — 

Thus  my  spirit  responds  where  your  presence 
hath  been ; 

And  a  breath  of  the  past  hath  a  magic  control, 
To  startle  glad  memories  again  and  again, 

To  wake  into  music  the  Harp  of  the  Soul ! 


144 


SONNET. 


I  'M  very  fond  of  Music,  —  can  endure 
The  rickety  hand-organ's  dismal  moan,  — 

Can,  smiling,  fee  the  ragged  Troubadour 
To  grind  some  pretty  simple  thing  I've  known 
And  loved,  in  days  irrevocably  gone  ; 

But  have  a  horror  of  your  midnight  "  tooter,"  — 

The  wretch  who  wakes  you  from  a  happy  dream 
Of  some  sweet  feminine,  and  leaves  you 
neuter, 


SONNET.  145 


Doubtful  of  all  things,  present,  past,  or  future, 

Changing  your  golden  visions  into  pewter. 
Roused  from  your  sleep,  you  question  if  a 

scream 
From  some  poor  div'l,  wandering  with  a 

view  to 

No  matter  what.     This  vile  despotic  rule 
Stops  me  just  here.     A  Sonnetteer  's  a  fool ! 


10 


146 


TO 


FOR  HIS    MALICIOUS,   THOUGH   RIDICULOUSLY    HARMLESS, 
ATTACK   UPON    DANIEL  WEBSTER. 


VAIN  Poet !  when  thy  halting  Muse 
Hath  hobbled  through  her  brief  career ; 

And  come,  at  last,  to  be  of  use, 

In  more  appropriate  (grocer)  sphere  ;  — 

When  thy  blunt  pen  hath  spattered  forth 
All  thy  beclouded  brain  could  utter;  — 

When  all  thy  inspirations  live, 

But  as  transparencies  on  butter ;  — 


TO .  147 

When  all  which  wittiest  thou  deem'st, 
With  thee,  in  nameless  grave,  shall  rot. 

And  no  one,  save  thy  creditors, 

Or  starving  wolf,  shall  find  the  spot ;  — 

The  simplest  hint,  the  tiniest  word, 
The  Patriot  to  the  world  hath  given, 

Shall  be,  compared  with  aught  of  thine, 
As  brilliant  as  a  star  in  heaven. 

Selfish,  thou  canst  appreciate  not 

Disinterestedness  sublime, 
Nor  comprehend  the  arch  of  thought 

Which  overspans  the  stream  of  time. 


148 


LOVE    IS    THE    LIGHTEST. 

TO  A  LADY  WITH   A   PICTURE    REPRESENTING    CUPID    IN 
THE   SCALES    OUTWEIGHED    BY  A   BUTTERFLY. 

^       » 

O  WHO  so  dull  as  need  be  told 

That  Love  is  light  when  weighed  with  gold  ? 
A  fragment  of  a  miser's  dream 

Will  make  poor  Cupid  kick  the  beam. 

The  breeze  which  with  the  summer  sea 

Dallies  and  flirts  inconstantly, 
And  then  flies  laughing  to  the  shore, 

Leaving  her  pensive  as  before,  — 


LOVE    IS    THE    LIGHTEST.  149 

The  dew-drop,  which,  at  twilight  hour, 
Makes  love  to  the  exhausted  flower, 

But  falsely,  with  the  next  sun's  ray, 
In  exhalation  floats  away,  — 

Are  weightier,  —  nor  so  fickle  quite, 
As  that  capricious,  \yinged  sprite. 

Doubtest  thou,  Lady?  prithee  weigh  him, — 
A  butterfly  will  e'en  betray  him. 

If  you  should  capture  him  at  last, 
Take  my  advice,  secure  him  fast : 

I  've  known  full  many  a  luckless  maid 
Who  lost  him  ere  he  could  be  weighed. 


150 


EPIGRAM. 


No  one  believes  the  Commonwealth. 

'T  is  plain  the  reason  why,  man  ; 
It  speaks  the  truth  by  accident, 

And  not  from  any  good  intent, 
Because  its  very  life  and  health 

Depend  upon  a  Ly-man. 


151 


ART     THOU     READY? 


DEATH  cometh  where  he  chooseth ; 

Hath  he  not  prescriptive  right  ? 
To  the  scholar,  as  he  museth 

O'er  his  classic  toil  at  night,  — 

Or  to  worn  and  weary  labor, 

Done  by  muscle,  not  by  mind. 
The  rich  man's  gold,  the  poor  man's  prayer, 

He  giveth  to  the  wind. 


152  ART    THOU    READY  ? 

The  prayer  he  may  not  stop  to  hear: 

'T  is  not  for  Death  to  wait. 
His  "  pale  horse  "  pricketh  up  his  ear, 

And  paweth  at  the  gate ! 

The  gold  he  cannot  stoop  to  count: 

Onward  his  march  he  keeps. 
"  What  need  ?  "  says  Death ; "  the  sorrowing  heir 

Will  count  it,  ere  he  sleeps." 

To  the  proud  and  stately  warrior 

He  shouteth,  in  the  fight, 
"  Falchion,  and  dirk,  and  scimitar, 

Each  is  my  satellite  ! " 

At  the  elbow  of  the  statesman, 

Like  a  statue,  doth  he  stand, 
Waiting  for  the  latest  proof-sheet, 

Ready  to  pour  out  his  sand. 


ART    THOU    READY  ?  153 

"  'T  is  my  last  triumphant  effort ! " 
Says  the  statesman.  Loud  and  clear, 

(In  advance)  he  heard  the  plaudits 
Which  Ambition  loves  to  hear. 

«  'T  is  thy  last  triumphant  effort! " 
Echoed  Deatn.  The  coming  morn, 

Shrouded  in  his  glorious  effort, 
Is  the  dying  statesman  *  borne ! 

Thus,  where  he  wills,  he  goeth. 

Unchallenged  he  may  pass  ; 
He  moweth  down  the  sentinel, 

And  muttereth,  "  Flesh  is  grass  !  " 

Prompteth  he  sad,  yet  wholesome  thought, 
Wherever  he  may  come  ; 

*  Death  of  the  Earl  of  Chatham  in  the  House  of  Lords. 


154  ART    THOU    READY  ? 

To  him  who  ponders  as  he  ought, 
The  warning  reaches  home. 

"  Be  thou  ready  ! "  is  his  sermon, 
To  which  life  is  but  the  text. 

Art  thou  ready  ?     Quick  determine ! 
Thine  may  be  the  summons  next ! 


155 


DREAMS. 


I  grant  that  dreams  are  idle  things, 

Yet  have  I  known  a  few 
To  which  my  faithful  memory  clings, 

They  were  so  warm  and  true." 


CALL  those  not  "idle  things"  which  rise 
Like  stars  when  day  is  done, 

And  all  life's  dull  realities 
Are  to  oblivion  gone  ; 

Which  nestle  in  the  heart  of  care, 

And  chime  forgotten  music  there. 


156  DREAMS. 


Memory's  dear  self  is  but  a  dream, 
When  she  would  fondly  borrow 

The  darling  thoughts  of  happier  hours 
To  weave  into  her  sorrow,  — 

Embalming  thus  life's  hopes  and  fears, 

The  joys  of  youth,  the  woes  of  years. 

Yet  who  would  lose  the  flight  sublime 
Which  oft  to  dreams  is  given  ; 

The  sweet  forgetfulness  of  time, 
The  stolen  glimpse  of  heaven, 

When  the  pure  soul,  unchained  and  free, 

Converses  with  her  destiny  ? 

Sweet  as  the  moonlight's  placid  sleep 

Upon  the  storm-tired  ocean, 
Or  far-off  music  fitful  heard, 

Like  waking  joys  in  motion, 


DREAMS.  157 


Is  that  delicious  dream,  which  brings 
To  wearied  man  an  angel's  wings  ;  — 

% 

Which  leads  him  back  to  earlier  days, 

» 

With  golden  chain  enwreathed  with  flowers ; 
While,  through  an  atmosphere  of  tears, 

The  rainbow  of  that  halcyon  time, 
With  its  bright  promise,  glows  before  him, 
And  hope  and  youth  are  bending  o'er  him  ! 

The  Autumn  wind,  which  sadly  grieves 
O'er  Summer's  prostrate  glories, 

And  sighs  upon  the  dying  leaves 
Illuminated  stories, 

With  ruthless  hand,  at  midnight  hour, 

Doth  desecrate  young  Summer's  bower, — 

Leaving  her  with  dishevelled  hair, 
And  russet  mantle  wet  with  showers, 


158  DREAMS. 


To  shiver,  in  the  chilly  air, 

Upon  her  bed  of  withered  flowers, 
Her  sunny  joy  of  yesterday, 
A  dream,  a  vision,  past  away. 

'T  is  all  a  dream !  from  first  to  last, 

Earth,  ocean,  sky,  wind,  cloud,  and  star, 

The  shadowy  future,  and  the  past, 
Alike  mysterious  are. 

Who  thinks  to  read  it  does  but  err: 

Death,  Death,  is  the  interpreter ! 


159 


TO 


IN  a  quaint  book  ("horresco  referens!")  I  saw 

The  very  last  thing  I  was  looking  for. 
The  idea  was  this :   none  but  a  fool  (since 
Milton 

His  valuable  ink  the  Sonnet  spilt  on) 
Has  condescended  to  waste  brains  and  time 

On  just  precisely  fourteen  lines  of  rhyme. 
Now,  were  I  haughty -cultural  in  my  natur, 

I  'd  pray  that  rot  might  seize  such  common- 
tatur ; 


160 


TO 


But  as  I  write  for  neither  fame  nor  pelf, 
I  claim  the  right  to  criticize  myself. 

For  all  your  sneering  critics,  small  or  big, 
I  have  respect  as  for  the  learned  pig : 

Many  a  one,  who  through  his   stupid   Epic 
whines, 

Had  wiser  been  to  stop  at  the  first  thirteen  lines. 


161 


JEALOUSY. 


ONE  winter's  eve,  so  doth  this  story  go, 
(If  true  or  false  none  save  the   Spinsters 

know,) 

Three  Spinsters,  to  beguile  their  loneliness, 
Sat  down  to  read  the  history  of  "  Queen 

Bess." 
They  ranted  o'er  poor  Mary's  grievous 

wrongs ; 
They   snuffed    the    candle,   and    they 

jammed  the  tongs 
11 


162  JEALOUSY. 


Between  the  bars  of  the  insensate  grate, 

To  exhaust  their  superfluity  of  hate. 
At  last,  becoming  perfectly  subdued, 

They  pardoned  e'en   the  "  soubriquet "   of 

«  good," 
Sneered    at    her    manly   virtues,   called    her 

"Bloomer," 
And  really   broached    a   vein   of  dried-up 

humor, 

Sat,  like  three  vital  parchments,  side  by  side, 
Laughing  at  their  own  wit  until   they 

cried. 
And  thus  they  might,  could,  would,  or 

should  have  done, 
But  something  suddenly  disturbed  their 

fun. 

The  rash  historian  styled  her  "  Virgin  Queen"! 
This   roused   anew   their   ire ;   this   stirred 
their  spleen. 


JEALOUSY.  163 


They  had  endured  all  but  the  final  touch, 

Had  almost  pardoned ;  but  this  was  too  much. 
In  an  unguarded  moment,  they,  forsooth, 

Urged  on  by  passion  (at  the  expense  of  truth), 
Swore  each,  "  By  those  inseparable  twins  of 

Siam ! 

"  Queen  Bess  ?     No  more  a  virgin  was  Queen 
Bess  than  I  am !  " 


164 


THE     WARNING. 


BATTLE  is  waging !     Sin  is  the  foe. 

Rests  it  with  thee  if  thou  win  it  or  no : 
Fight  it  thou  must.     Gird  for  the  strife  ! 

'T  is  humanity's  portion,  the  errand  of  life. 

Bind  on  thine  armor !     Stand,  and  be  true  ! 

Stand  by  the  faithful  though  they  be  the  few. 
Lay  down  thy  fears  when  thou  liftest  thy  sword ; 

When  thou  art  faltering,  think  of  thy  Lord ! 


THE    WARNING.  165 


Doubt  not!  'tis  weakness.   Hope !  it  is  strength. 
Pray  !  and  thy  foe  thou  shalt  conquer  at 

length. 

Follow  thy  soul!     It  shall  lead  thee  aright. 
From  error,  through  darkness,  to  wisdom  and 
light! 

Boldly  meet  trial !     Count  not  the  loss. 

Think  of  thy  Master,  his  sufferings,  his  cross ; 
Humbly  proclaim  the  dictation  of  Faith  ; 

Calmly  await  the  decision  of  Death. 


166 


EGOTISM  OF    THE    LETTER    R. 


I  DWELL  in  the  forest,  deserted  and  lone, 
Yet  kings  must  allow  me  a  part  of  their 

throne. 

My  favor  is  courted ;  for  I  have  the  means, 
By  mere  absence,  to  change  all  their  friends 
into  fiends ! 

Revolutions  may  come,  and  adversities  lower 
On  political  states,  still  I  'm  ever  in  power  ; 

In  the  centre  of  earth,  I  inhabit  the  air ; 
The  leader  in  revels,  am  constant  in  prayer. 


EGOTISM  OF  THE  LETTER  R.        167 

I  'm  never  in  sadness,  though  alway  in  sorrow; 

No  part  of  to-day,  am  one  fourth  of  to-morrow ; 
In  your  frolics  for  aye,  never  mingle  in  joys ; 

In  riots  unceasing,  retire  from  noise. 

I  dwell  with  romance,  tho'  I  vanish  from  fiction  ; 
No  sage,  yield  my  part  to  the  prophet's  pre 
diction  ; 
To  rapture  essential,  I  fly  from  delight ; 

And  the  dweller  in  darkness,  ne'er  habit  with 
night. 

Never  known  among  plants,  yet  in  each  fragrant 

flower ; 
Not  an  instant  of  time,  at  the  close  of  each 

hour  ; 

For  aye  in  your  power,  though  out  of  your  view, 
Forming  part  of  your  pleasure  and  misery 
too. 


t 

168         EGOTISM  OF  THE  LETTER  R. 


In  the  brook's  tiny  ripple,  Niagara's  roar,  — 
In  the  crest  of  the  breaker  that  folds  to  the 

shore ; 
With  the  sweet  serenade,  and  in  discord's  rude 

jar, 

The   war-shouting   clarion,  the  love-tuned 
guitar. 

t 
In  the  sunrise  of  Life,  in  the  darkness  of  Death ; 

With  the   Summer's  warm  breeze,  in  the 

Winter's  chill  breath  ; 
For  ever  in  right,  still  as  oft  in  the  wrong  ; 
And  though  living  in  harmony,  dying  in  song. 


169 


APOTHEOSIS. 


THOU  model  Statesman!  sacrificing  self 
Upon  the  altar  of  thy  country's  good,  — 

Hating  corruption,  and  despising  pelf,  — 
Yet  how  misconstrued,  how  misunderstood ! 

A  martyr  to  thy  patriotic  zeal, 

"  Without  desire  for  office,"  or  for  spoils,  — 
Desiring  nothing  save  thy  country's  weal, 

"  Conscience  "  alone  encouraging  thy  toils. 


170  APOTHEOSIS. 


Thy  "  personal  wishes  dreading  to  forego," 
Thou  view'st  with  horror  that  forensic  strife, 

Which  must  disturb  the  quiet,  even  flow 
Of   "ideas   cherished   from    thine    earliest 
life." 

No  viperous  malignity  is  thine ; 

No  malice  tinges  aught  thy  lips  impart; 
Sweet  charity  doth  shed  her  ray  divine 

On,  every  issue  from  thy  noble  heart. 

Tbey  know  thee  not  who  think  thou  wouldst 
aspire, 

With  wild  ambition's  feverish  wings,  to  fly  ; 
Thy  spiritual  longings  bear  thee  higher 

Than  the  base  promptings  of  the  pronoun  I ! 

Retiring,  modest,  motive  none  hast  thou 
Which  to  that  "  higher  law  "  doth  not  refer, 


APOTHEOSIS.  171 


To  whose  dictation  all  alike  must  bow, 
Each  for  himself  the  just  interpreter! 

Now  "  serins  in  ccelum  redeas  !  " 

Freely  translated,  may  the  world  unborn 

View  thee,  as  thou  thyself  dost  view,  the  star 
Which    heraldeth     Millennium's     glorious 


172 


MUCH    ADO    ABOUT    NOTHING. 


IN  eighteen  hundred  thirty-nine, 

Great  Britain  came  to  draw  a  line 

On  our  Northeastern  border. 
And  drew  it  at  so  "  fash  "  a  rate, 

We  swore  the  compass  was  n't  straight, 

But  sadly  out  of  order. 

Now  Johnny  never  stopped  to  think 
How  very  subtile  was  the  link 
'Twixt  friendship  and  dissension. 


MUCH   ADO   ABOUT   NOTHING.  173 

He  ordered  out  a  hireling  band, 

Thinking  to  "  squat "  upon  the  land, 
And  'stablish  his  pretension. 

At  this  Old  «  Maine"  a  «  posse"  sent, 
With  legal  views,  and  good  intent, 
Hinting,  "  We  think  you  are  wrong,  Sir. 

We  '11  therefore  keep  our  bounds,  d  'ye  see, 
Until  the  higher  l  powers  that  be ' 
Say  where  we  do  belong,  Sir." 

Then  Johnny  began  to  fret  and  fume, 
Like  a  ten-million  power-loom, 
A  little  out  of  gearing ; 
Vowed  by  "  Quebec  and  Waterloo  " 
(Not  «  Bunker  Hill,"  that  would  'nt  do) 
He  ne'er  would  be  dictated  to, 
Nor  would  he  grant  a  hearing. 


174         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

He  took  our  Sheriff,  head  and  tail, 
And  locked  him  up  in  Frederick  jail, 
To  ruminate  a  little. 

Swift  as  a  flash !  to  light  there  spring, 
Of  war  tools,  almost  everything, 
Drums,  tenor,  bass,  and  kettle. 

Fifers,  who  never  fifed  before, 
Fife,  fife,  until  their  lips  are  sore, 
And  then  attempt  to  whistle. 

E'en  Patriotism  goes  so  far, 

That  little  boys  scream  out "  huzza ! " 
And  pigs  begin  to  bristle  ! 

Most  furious  resolutions  pass, 

That  cannon,  pewter,  lead,  and  brass 
Be  scoured  and  put  in  order. 

Words,  tempest-stirred,  begin  to  rise, 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         175 

With  something  like  a  "  D — n  your  eyes, 
You  can't  chalk  out  our  border ! " 

The  Legislature  of  the  State, 

Convened,  in  feverish  debate, 

"  Resolves  it  is  invaded  "  ! 
The  Sheriff's  injuries  to  atone,     , 

They  must  make  captures  three  for  one, 

And  them  treat  as  him  they  did. 

Johnny  now  turns  his  Red-coats  out,  — 
Mars  Hill  is  changed  to  a  redoubt 
In  the  "  twinkling  of  your  e'en." 

Lord  Pompous  mounts  his  sodger  cap, 
Pretending  that  he  longs  to  rap 
The  Yankees  for  the  Queen. 

But  Yankee  lads  are  bold  and  true ! 
"  Backed  up  "  by  Yankee-doodle-doo, 


176         MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. 

They  overflow  with  "  gloria." 
So  to  the  border  quick  they  went, 
Shouting,  "  God  save  our  President! 
And  the  (?)  take  Victoria !  " 

When  matters  had  advanced  thus  far, 
And  Asses  still  were  braying  war, 
Old  Common  Sense,  quite  nettled, 

Said,  "  Wait  a  wee,  let 's  understand 
The  title  to  this  bit  of  land  ; 
Then,  when  that  point  is  settled, 

\ 

"  If  Britain's  wrong,  yet  will  not  yield, 
Gird  on  your  arms,  by  flood  and  field, 
As  your  sires  have  done  before  you. 

Invincible  shall  be  your  might, 

With  freemen  battling  for  the  right, 
And  Freedom's  banner  o'er  you ! " 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING.         177 

The  whole  thing  seemed  to  flash  at  once 
On  all  the  world.     The  veriest  dunce 
Said  Common  Sense  is  right.     "  For 

Until  the  wise  ones  have  found  out 
What  all  this  hubbub  is  about, 
The  De'il  is  there  to  fight  for." 


12 


178 


WAKE   FROM  THY  SLUMBERS! 


A  SERENADE. 


WAKE  from  thy  slumbers !     Music  is  stealing, 
Plaintive  and  sad,  'mid  the  murmuring  trees. 
Wake !  the  sweet  flowers  of  the  night  are  un 
sealing 

Their  lips  to  the  wooing  breeze. 
Love  breathes  in  music : 
List  to  the  low  Serenade  ! 

Open  thy  lattice !  The  young  moon  has  given 
Her  sorrowing  smile  to  the  world ; 

No  cloud  to  o'ershadow  her  pathway  in  heaven, 
Not  a  wave  by  the  languid  breeze  curled. 


WAKE    FROM    THY    SLUMBERS  !  179 

Open  thy  lattice,  Love ! 
Hark!  't  is  for  thee,  only  thee  ! 

Sleep,  lady,  sleep !     May  these  votive  numbers 

Be  to  thy  dreams  as  the  dew  to  the  rose ; 
May  visions  of  Eden  be  inwoven  with  thy 

slumbers, 

And  angels  watch  o'er  thy  repose. 
Sleep,  lady,  sleep  ! 
Hushed  is  the  low  Serenade  ! 

The  moon  has  gone  down  in  the  shadowy  west ; 
The  echo  has  died,  like  a  wave  on  the  shore. 
O  would  I  were  music,  to  soothe  thee  to  rest, 
To  have  thus  my  influence  sweetly  confest! 
But,  alas !  I  must  gaze  and  adore. 
Lady,  farewell ! 
Music  may  woo  thee  alone! 


180 


EPIGRAM. 


TO   A    PAPER-MAKING   FRIEND,    "WHO    COMPLAINED    OF    THE 
HIGH   PRICE    OF    JUNK! 


THE  Spring  is  opening  fresh  and  green, 
The  wild-bird  carols  in  the  air ; 

Yet  what  to  thee  the  sylvan  scene, 
If  junk,  dear  junk,  be  wanting  there? 

The  frogs  upon  the  river's  edge, 

The  tortoise  on  the  old  tree's  trunk, 

Before  they  dive  among  the  sedge, 
Satirically  murmur,  "  Junk ! " 


EPIGRAM.  181 


I  mourn  with  thee,  sincerely  mourn, 
My  paper-making,  junkless  friend ; 

Sure  mortal  man  ne'er  trod  this  earth 
More  worthy  of  a  good  rope's-end ! 


182 


THE    GORED    HUNTER. 


THE  beautiful  simplicity  of  the  school  of  poetry 
which  I  have  attempted  respectfully  to  imitate  in  "  The 
Gored  Hunter,"  has  often  struck  me  forcibly,  white 
undergoing  the  perusal  of  many  of 's  com 
positions.  Who  can  resist,  for  instance,  the  stern, 
uncompromising  integrity,  and  regard  for  truth,  where 
the  narrator,  in  his  description  of  the  person  of  the 
hunter  (stanza  second),  says  : 

"  I  measured  only  with  my  eye, 
And  therefore  am  not  sure  "  ? 

As  the  description  of  the  hunter's  dress  and  pecu 
liar  appearance  proceeds,  so  plain  and  unimaginative 
is  it,  that  a  child  may  comprehend  it  as  easily  as  he 
would  a  bowl  of  milk  and  water,  or  the  last  edition 

This,  I  consider,  should  be  the  true  standard  of 


THE    GORED    HUNTER.  183 

poesy.  Instead  of  floating  on  the  wings  of  Fancy, 
in  the  region  of  rainbow  and  star,  —  holding  tran 
scendental  interviews  with  "  music,  moonlight,  love, 
and  flowers,"  the  Muse  should  depend,  for  the  inter 
est  she  may  awaken,  upon  the  most  common  inci 
dents  of  every-day  life. 

In  lieu  of  dipping  her  pencil  in  the  pollen  of  the 
wild-flower,  and  her  pen  in  mountain-dew,  she  should 
select  a  quill  from  some  matronly  goose,  and  a  bot 
tle  of  writing-fluid  from  "  Maynard  and  Noyes." 
As  an  emblem  (to  aid  her  throes  for  inspiration),  her 
fountain,  the  inkstand, should  represent,  not  Petrarch's 
demoralizing  device,  the  sensual  and  soul-destroying 
Cupid,  but  a  correct  representation  of  a  beefsteak 
and  pancakes ! 

This  latter  emblem  would  exert  manifold  whole 
some  influences  over  the  poet.  In  the  first  place,  it 
would  inevitably  remind  him  of  his  mortal  inevita 
bility,  by  suggesting  to  him  that  he  must  eat  to  live, 
and  therefore  cannot  be  spiritual  wholly. 

Secondly,  it  is  a  practical  tableau,  suggestive  of 
the  agricultural  interest  and  the  enormous  price  of 
flour.  In  this  way,  indirectly,  operating  as  a  check 
upon  his  physical  extravagance,  and  thus  naturally 
enough  controlling  his  mental  profusion,  by  hinting 


184  THE    GORED   HUNTER. 

to  him  the  propriety  of  economy  in  his  ideas.  To 
any  one  familiar  with  the  physiological  fact  of  the 
intimate  connection  between  the  mental  and  physical, 
this  corollary  must  be  perfectly  satisfactory. 


THE  HUNTER'S  RESIDENCE. 
WITHIN  a  mountain's  rugged  wilds 

(As  rugged  as  could  be), 
With  heart  just  like  a  little  child's, 

A  hunter  lived,  you  see. 


HIS   STATURE. 


This  hunter-man  was  six  feet  high, 
Perhaps  an  inch  or  more ;  — 

I  measured  only  with  my  eye> 
And  therefore  am  not  sure. 

DETAIL  OP   FEATURES,  ETC. 

His  face  was  long,  and  brown,  and  thin, 
His  eye  was  gray  and  small  ; 


THE    GORED    HUNTER.  185 

I  know  not  if  he  had  a  chin,  — 
He  never  shaved  at  all! 

HIS   ECCENTRICITY. 

For  why  ?     This  ancient  hunter-man 

In  ignorance  did  grope  ; 
A  razor  he  did  never  see, 

He  would  have  eaten  soap ! 

HIS   TOILET. 

His  cap  was  made  of  tiger's  head 

(The  skin-side  was  within), 
And  just  three  inches  from  his  nose 

The  tiger's  teeth  did  grin. 

MORE   TOILET. 

His  coat,  it  was  of  buffalo  : 

The  tail  hung  down  behind, 
Save  when  the  breeze  did  furious  blow, 

Then  flirted  with  the  wind. 


186  THE    GORED   HUNTER. 

MORE   TOILET. 

His  pants  and  waistcoat  were  of  bear, 
This  quaint  eccentric  stager,  — 

Astronomers  have  christened  him 
"  Terrestrial  Ursa  Major  "  / 

HIS    COMPANION. 

A  hound  he  had,  this  hunter  had, 
A  hound  as  white  as  snow  ; 

Unto  the  woods,  in  company, 
Full  daily  did  they  go. 

HIS  .CAUTION. 

Around  his  neck  a  bugle-horn 
This  hunter-man  would  fling, 

And  (lest  he  might  the  bugle  lose) 
He  tied  it  with  a  string. 

THE   KIND   OF   STRING. 

The  string,  it  was  a  sinew  strong 
From  out  a  killed  deer 


THE    GORED   HUNTER.  187 

Which  he  had  shot.    Can't  say  how  long; 
It  may  have  been  a  year. 

HIS   SYSTEM. 

His  wont  it  was,  as  I  have  said, 

Full  daily  out  to  go. 
(With  his  white  hound  in  company,) 

For  deer  or  buffalo. 

DEVOTION   TO   THE    CHASE. 

The  woods  did  echo  every  day 

The  bugle's  thrilling  sound, 
The  hound  was  ne'er  without  the  man, 

The  man  without  the  hound. 

MORTALITY  SUGGESTED. 

But  nature  is  a  feeble  thing, 

However  strong  it  be, 
And  e'en  the  stalworth  hunter-man 

To  Death  must  bow  the  knee. 


188  THE    GORED   HUNTER. 

MORTALITY   PROVED. 

One  day,  as  he  a  hunting  was, 
(I  've  said  that  twice  before,) 

A  wounded  buffalo,  full  mad, 
Attacked,  and  did  him  gore. 

HIS   LONELY   CONDITION. 

No  friendly  voice  to  breathe  a  prayer,  - 

No  fifty  *  on  each  eye,  — 
He  wrapped  him  in  his  shroud  of  hair, 

And  laid  him  down  to  die. 

THE   MYSTERY. 

What  thoughts  did  agitate  his  breast, 

As  dying  there  he  lay, 
The  hunter-man  himself  knew  best, 

And  he  did  never  say. 


*  A  transcendental  allusion  to  the  extravagant  custom  of 
placing  half-dollars  on  the  eyelids. 


THE    GORED   HUNTER.  189 

THE   EXPLANATION. 

When  we  assert  he  nothing  said, 
We  mean  no  one  did  hear  him : 

'Twas  some  time  after  he  was  dead, 
Before  a  soul  came  near  him. 


MORAL  COURAGE. 

But  this  we  know.     The  hunter  took 

His  bugle  from  his  side, 
And,  "  clapping"  it  up  to  his  mouth, 

He  blew  it  till  he  died. 


THE   GHOST. 

Upon  that  anniversary, 

(So  saith  his  friend,  McDougle,) 
The  spectre  of  the  hunter-man 

Doth  come  with  hound  and  bugle ! 


190  THE    GORED   HUNTER. 

And  the  desolate  midnight  woods  are  stirred, 
as  the  awful  chorus  there  is  heard, 

Of  roaring  bulls,  and  hunter's  groans,  —  the 
rattling  of  bleaching  bones,  — 

And  that  unearthly,  fearful  sound,  the  howling 
of  a  starving  hound. 


191 


TO 


LIFE  is  quite  Gothic.     Don't  you  think  so, 

Mary? 

Particularly  on  a  moonlight  night,  in  June. 
Objects,  the  most  familiar,  oddly  vary 

'Neath  those  pale  beams.    Like  a  wild  harp, 

in  tune, 

The  heart  goes  dancing  to  its  own  mad  measure, 
And  times  flies  by  unreckoned.    Who  could 
hear 


192  TO  . 

The   clock's   dull  warning,  when  the    Siren, 

Pleasure, 

Was  breathing  dreamy  nonsense  in  his  ear? 
I  may  be  an  exception  to  the  rule 

Which   governs    careful    plodders,    but    I 

could  n't 
(Proving  myself  a  sentimental  fool). 

Thus  Cupid  took  the  reins,  as  reason  would 

n't. 

Delicious  theme!  one  might  write  years  upon  it, 
But  fourteen  lines  just  constitute  a  sonnet. 


193 


TO    MY    STEEL    PEN. 


MY  unassuming  "  Perryan," 

I  venerate  thee  much  ; 
So  prompt  art  thou  at  my  command, 
So  firm  and  steady  in  the  hand, 

Yet  pliant  to  the  touch. 

Still  more  I  prize  thee,  that,  although 

A  constant  service  lending, 
Thou  toilest  on  from  day  to  day, 

13 


194  TO    MY    STEEL    PEN. 

And,  seize  upon  thee  when  I  may, 
Thou  ne'er  requirest  mending. 

"  Old  fogie  clerks  "  awhile  may  sneer, 

Calling  thee  innovation ; 
Yet  naught  they  say  can  harm  thy  weal : 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  with  points  of  steel, 

Thou  guard'st  thy  reputation  ! 

Quill-drivers  still  may  scoff  at  thee : 

A  fig  for  their  abuse ! 

Tell  them,  though  "  Goosey's  "  noisy  clack 
Once  saved  Imperial  Rome  from  sack, 

Greater,  "thou  sav'st  the  goose  " ! 

Be  thou  to  me  a  friend,  in  need  ; 

A  monitor  and  guide, 
When  thought  would  roam  without  control, 


TO    MY  STEEL    PEN.  195 

And  barter  dignity  of  soul 
For  vanity  and  pride. 

I 

If  I  should  ever  be  induced, 

To  hold  thee  such  a  course, 
Seize  thou  my  traitorous  hand,  and  shake  it; 
Blot  every  letter,  as  I  make  it ; 
Keep  hinting  me  until  I  take  it ; 

But,  check  me,  e'en  by  force  ! 


196 


STARS    AND    FLOWERS. 


STARS,  which  in  the  voiceless  air 

Twinkle  brightly  ! 
While  this  speck  of  toil  and  care 

Dreameth,  nightly, 
Glowing  messengers  are  ye  of  love, 
Beacon-fires,  to  invoke  our  gaze  above  ! 

Stars !  they  tell  me  ye  are  worlds  : 
Is  it  true  ? 


STARS    AND    FLOWERS.  197 

Does  this  sordid  spot  appear 

Luminous  to  you  ? 
Do  you  watch  thus  pensively  for  our  birth  in 

heaven  ? 

Do  we  seem  to  you  to  twinkle  every  Summer's 
even  ? 

Tell  us,  gentle  Star !     Reveal 

What  our  souls  would  know : 
We  have  need  of  holier  influence 

Here  below. 

Solve  the  mystery  :  we  should  be  more  angelic 
far, 

Couldst  thou  prove  it  to  be  true,  gentle  Star ! 

« 

Flowers,  of  thousand  varied  dyes, 

Delicately  dight, 
Wherein  the  Queen  Fairy  lies 

Through  the  dewy  night,  — 


198  STARS    AND    FLOWERS. 

Each  a  gorgeous  paradise  for  the  bee, 

And  the  phantom  humming-bird's  treasury, — 

Flowers,  to  me  how  oft  ye  seem 

(Fancy  blended) 
Fragments  of  a  seraph's  dream, 

Heaven-descended  ; 
Painted  thoughts  from  spheres  unknown,  never 

spoken ; 
Fragrant  apotheoses  of  young  hearts  broken. 

Stars  !  ye  have  been  thought,  by  some, 

* 

Angel's  eyes, 
Gazing  on  their  earthly  home 

From  the  skies. 
Stay !   and   tremble    where   ye  are,  in   those 

brilliant  bowers : 

Pale  would  grow  your  purer  fires  in  this  world 
of  ours. 


STARS    AND    FLOWERS.  199 

Stars !  unnumbered,  numberless, 

Shining  brightly  now ; 
Beautiful  as  when  ye  first 

Sparkled  on  Night's  brow ; 
Moving  on,  in  majesty,  through  the  ceaseless 

years, 

Circling   to    the    chime    harmonious    of   the 
spheres ;  — 

Flowers !  hiding  in  the  untrodden  wood, 

\ 
Or  flaunting  in  saloon  ; 

Sleeping  'neath  a  gilded  tent, 
Or  smiled  on  by  the  moon  ; 
Precious,  if  ye  bloom  and  fade  on  the  far  hill 
side, 
Or  upon  the  silken  tress  of  the  blushing  bride ;  — 

None  can  comprehend  the  whole 
Of  your  meaning. 


200  STARS    AND    FLOWERS. 

No  !  the  most  inspired  soul 

Is  but  gleaning. 
Star !    in  the    night-air    blooming ;    Flower ! 

shining  in  the  sod  ;  — 

Ye  are  poetic  magnets,  ever   drawing  us  to 
God! 


201 


SONNET     TO    . 

A   RESPONSE    TO    "AIRS    FROM    PANDEMONIUM";    WHICH 
WAS  A  REPLY   TO    MY   "  SONNET   TO   THE   DIV'L." 

DEAR 't  was  d — sh  kind  of  you 

To  act  as  Satan's  private  secretary. 

So   "brusque,"    and    promptly,   you    re 
sponded  too, 
You  must  be  intimate  ;  —  we  may  add 

very. 

Much  do  we  fear,  judging  by  these  revealings, 
That,  actuated  by  the  best  intention, 

Infernally  we  've  trifled  with  your  feelings. 


202  SONNET    TO 


Pardon !  we  crave.      And   here  would 

proudly  mention, 

Should  Congress  need  an  Embassy  to  R 
Ten  thousand  friends  would  gladly  recom 
mend  you. 

No  one  could  represent  us  there  so  well ! 
They  would  rejoice  to  see,  as  we  to 

send  you. 

If  you  should  go,  as  bearer  of  despatches, 
Tell  Lucifer  we  're  almost  out  of  matches ! 


203 


THE   FIRST   FLY,  — AND   THE    MORAL. 


GOOD  morrow,  harbinger  of  Spring! 

Why  need  you  keep  up  such  a  strumming? 
You  'd  better  fold  your  shivering  wing, 

And  stop  that  hypocritic  humming. 

You  '11  suffer  many  a  cold  day  yet, 

When  April  clouds  the  sun  have  hidden. 

Your  eyes  look  dull,  your  feet  are  wet ; 
Go  back !  and  sleep  till  you  are  bidden. 


204  THE    FIRST    FLY, 

There  's  not  a  fly,  save  you,  has  dared 
To  peep  from  out  his  hiding-place  ; 

And  we  could  very  well  have  spared 
Your  solemn  phiz  and  chilly  grace. 

Poor  thing!  it  makes  me  sad  to  see 
You  thus  each  ray  of  sunshine  seizing. 

Rubbing  your  hands,  as  if  in  glee, 
Forgetting  that  I  heard  you  sneezing. 

Courage,  my  friend  !     Regret  were  vain. 

Philosophize,  until  it  's  warmer, 
And  thus  the  coming  year  may  gain 

A  wholesome  lesson  from  the  former. 

When,  standing  round  the  glass's  brink, 
Your  jolly  Summer  friends  you  see, 

How  cheap  you  '11  feel  whene'er  they  drink 
«  The  Spring  of  eighteen  fifty-three !  " 


AND    THE    MORAL.  205 

MORAL. 

There's  many  a  man,  like  that  poor  fly, 
Whose  whole  existence  has  been  cursed 

By  that  same  foolish  vanity, 
A  mad  ambition  to  be  first. 


206 


THE  LOVER  TO  HIS   BOUQUET. 


'T  is  said  that  flowers  can  talk  as  well 
As  lovers  can,  or  better ;  — 

That  Flora  makes  each  scented  bell 
To  represent  a  letter. 

Then  go,  thou  blest  interpreter ! 

Speak  for  me,  bright  "  bouquet," 
And  whisper  low  in  Mary's  ear 

On  this  her  natal  day. 


THE  LOVER  TO  HIS  BOUQUET.         207 

Speed  on  your  happy  embassy, 

Freighted  with  precious  lore. 
On  each  of  you  is  Cupid's  seal; 

Fly,  sweet  Charges  d'Amour! 

Tell  her  the  love  I  fain  would  tell ; 

Bless  her  for  those  stolen  hours; 
And  pray  her  not  to  break  the  spell 

Which  binds  us  now,  sweet  flowers. 

Oh !  when  she  folds  you  to  her  breast, 

Be  redolent  of  me  ; 
Lightly  upon  that  Eden  rest, 

As  starlight  on  the  sea. 

Twine  ye  amid  her  dark  brown  hair, 

Clasp  ye  those  silken  tresses ; 
Ye  cannot  make  her  brow  more  fair, 

With  your  gay  summer  dresses. 


208  THE    LOVER    TO    HIS    BOUQUET. 

Mingle,  with  hers,  your  scented  sighs,  — 

Wreathe  ye  her  dreams  by  night ; 
Or  wake  her  with  a  soft  surprise. 

Haste,  Love's  pure  satellite ! 

* 

Breathe  low  the  thought  I  fain  would  tell ; 

Bless  her  for  those  stolen  hours : 
And  pray  her  not  to  break  the  spell 

Which  binds  us  now,  sweet  flowers! 


209 


GENTLY!    GENTLY! 


GENTLY  !  gently  !     Shouldst  thou  see 
Something  which  disturbeth  thee, 
Treat  it  not  disdainfully ! 

Thou  mayst  have  misunderstood. 
With  thine  own  unhappy  mood, 
That  thou  seest  may  be  imbued. 
Gently !  gently ! 

Gently !  gently !     Never  fear. 

What  though  discord  shock  thine  ear 

14 


210  GENTLY!  GENTLY! 

'T  is  to  be  expected  here. 
In  thy  soul  a  Harp  doth  lie, 

Fraught  with  Heaven's  own  melody 
Try  its  soothing  harmony. 
Gently!  gently! 

Gently  !  gently !     To  thy  taste 

Much  shall  seem  impure,  unchaste ; 
Yet  determine  not  in  haste. 
Oft  the  palate  may  be  crude 
-   And  in  fault,  and  not  the  food. 
Thy  decision  may  be  rude. 
Gently!  gently! 


211 


LINES 


ON  BBACKETT'S  GROUP,  "  THE  SHIPWRECKED  MOTHEK  AND 
CHILD." 


STILL  faithful  to  thy  trust! 

Still  clinging,  with  that  fond,  undying  love, 
To  the  frail  dust 

Consigned  thee  from  above ! 

The  mighty  Spirit  of  the  Gale 

Bade  navies  shattered  He  ; 
Yet  severed  not  those  links  so  frail, 

Broke  not  that  silken  tie. 


212  LINES. 


Closer,  and  closer,  press  that  lifeless  form 

To  thy  cold,  pulseless  heart ! 
Vainly  would  strive  the  elemental  storm 

That  golden  chain  to  part. 

Mother!  —  the  mightiness  of  that  soft  name 

No  words  express ; 
The  ocean  could  not  quench  that  holy  flame 

Of  lambent  tenderness. 

"  God,  to  the  gentle  lamb, 

The  wind  doth  temper  in  sweet  harmony" ; 
And  sure  I  am 

Angels  are  watching  for  thy  child  and  thee! 

* 

Beautiful  emblem !  how  dost  thou  control 
(As  't  were  a  human  picture  there) 

The  holiest  emotions  of  the  soul ! 
Inspired,  marble  prayer! 


213 


WHAT'S     FAME? 


UPON  Cunaxa's  silent  field, 

Broken,  the  war-car  lies  ; 
And  swinging  from  its  carved  wheel, 
Regardless  of  the  scythe  of  steel, 
The  spider  doth  his  web  unreel 

Beneath  the  quiet  skies. 

Pulseless  is  now  that  countless  host, 
Which  reaped  Death's  harvest-plain. 


214  WHAT  'S    FAME? 


Their  splendor  is  a  doubtful  boast, — 
A  lighthouse  on  a  desert  coast ; 
The  heroes  are  but  phantoms,  tost 
Upon  the  historic  main. 

As  something  mythical  we  read, 

Upon  the  dusky  page, 
Of  lofty  thought,  and  daring  deeds, — 
Of  armor  proof,  and  barbed  steeds,  — 
And  trophies,  now  but  faded  weeds 

Of  the  Homeric  age! 

Thus,  every  coming  age  shall  deem 

The  records  of  the  past 
But  leaves  from  an  enthusiast's  dream, 
So  insignificant  shall  seem 
Each  tiny  thought,  each  puny  scheme, 

Once  deemed  so  vast! 


WHAT  'S    FAME  ?  215 

E'en  now,  in  visions,  we  may  see 

Strange  people  stand, 
(Not  worshipping,  as  worship  we, 
Mere  pioneers  in  Liberty, 
But  more  exalted  and  more  free,) 
Chanting  some  new  philosophy, 

To  them  more  grand ! 


216 


ARE  YOU  A  «  CONNOISSEUR  "  IN  LOVE  ? 


STROLLING  one  Summer's  afternoon, 

('T  was  sultry  rather,) 
A  sweet,  voluptuous  day  in  June, 

Young  rose-bud  weather ;  — 

Alone?  O  no!  half  fainting,  on  my  arm 

Leant  a  fair  vision. 
I  said,  not  meaning  any  harm, 

This  is  Elysian ! 


ARE  YOU  A  "CONNOISSEUR"  IN  LOVE?     217 

Alluding  to  the  Pastoral,  of  course,  — 

Flower,  cloud,  and  sky,  — 
And  to  the  river  sparkling  by. 
My  words  had  in  them  no  peculiar  force ; 

Why  then  that  sigh  ? 

/ 
'T  was  evident  a  mystery  of  life 

Had  crossed  my  way. 

What  right  had  I  to  dream  of  that  word,  Wife  ? 
What  could  I  say? 

We  loitered  by  that  river's  wooded  shore, 

('T  was  wooded  then,) 
'T  will  wear  the  Eden  semblance  which  it  wore, 

Never  again! 

Knew   we  not  what  was  said,  our  thought 

revealing ; 
Crept  over  me  a  numbness. 


218    ARE  YOU  A  "CONNOISSEUR"  IN  LOVE? 

My  voice  deserted  me.     Then  came  a  feeling 
Of  dreamy  dumbness. 

Spoke  we  not.     Understood  we  still  the  more. 

Without  advice, 

We  launched  our  bark,  from  that  romantic 
shore, 

For  Paradise ! 

And  here  we  are !     Nor  look  we  with  regret 

Back  to  those  hours.  * 
Together  talk  we  of  that  greenwood  yet, 

Still  scent  we  those  wild-flowers. 


219 


THE     CHALLENGE. 


WOULD  you  your  love  with  mine  compare? 

I  could  write  sonnets  by  the  ream, 
To  prove  to  you  how  much  more  fair 

Is  the  dear  idol  of  my  dream ! 

Her  dark  hair  shades  a  brow  all  light ; 

Her  voice  is  like  a  saint's  guitar ; 
Her  step  is  free  as  mountain  sprite ; 

Her  eye  is  soft  as  twilight  star ! 


220  THE    CHALLENGE. 


Were  I  a  bee,  no  scented  flower 
Could  tempt  me  from  her  rosy  lip. 

Through  each  intoxicating  hour, 
My  feast  ambrosial  would  I  sip. 

O,  were  I  but  that  "  Satin  Basque  "  ! 

I  'd  clasp  her  tightly  all  the  day  ; 
No  other  boon  my  heart  would  ask, 

Unless  —  I  mean  —  that  is  to  say,  — 

Her  heart  o'erflows  with  tenderness; 

Her  soul,  with  sentiment  and  song; 
Her  laugh  is  like  a  wild-bird's  note, 

Echoing  the  leafy  woods  among. 

Compare  not,  then,  your  love  with  mine; 

My  Muse  has  an  exhaustless  theme. 
Beauty  and  Wit  and  Song  combine 

To  form  the  idol  of  my  dream ! 


221 


A    VALENTINE. 


THIS  Valentine,  selected  from  a  number  of  the 
same  genus,  is  published  at  the  earnest  request  of  a 
committee  of  little  counsellors,  who  have  been  un 
ceremoniously  peeping  into  my  loose  papers. 

I  feel  assured  that  my  little  fairy  friend,  to  whom 
it  is  addressed,  will  pardon  the  doubtful  immortality 
with  which  she  is  invested  by  my  (hitherto  unknown) 
Muse,  as  she  is  so  certain  of  a  saintly  immortality  in 
a  higher  and  a  purer  sphere  than  this. 


TO    LITTLE    MADDIE. 

MY  pale,  pure,  chaste  anemone, 
Unveil  those  soft,  dark  eyes  ! 


222  TO    LITTLE    MADDIE. 

I  fain  would  dream  of  Paradise, 
And  Eden's  moonlit  skies. 

You  cannot  read,  sweet  Valentine, 
You  cannot  even  speak ; 
Your  loving  mother's  soothing  words 
To  your  tiny  ears  are  Greek. 

But  she  '11  read  it  you,  Maddie, 
While  you  look  up,  and  crow  ; 
Which  means  you  understand  it  all ; 
Dear  Cupid  told  me  so. 

Send  back  some  little  sign,  darling, 
If  nothing  but  "  Ah  goo  !  " 
'T  will  keep  my  heart  from  wandering 
Away  from  love  and  you. 

Should  Mamma,  with  love  so  wary, 
Ask,  "  Who  dare  to  send  you  this  ?  " 


TO    LITTLE    MADDIE.  223 

Why,  of  course,  it  was  a  fairy, 
And  he  sealed  it  with  a  kiss. 

I  saw  him  when  he  penned  it, 
With  a  moonbeam  dipped  in  dew; 
I  but  copied  it,  and  send  it, 
As  his  Valentine,  to  you. 


224 


RE  VERIES. 


THERE  are  hours,  delicious  hours. 
When  this  world  doth  seem 
Like  a  fairy  isle  of  flowers 
Floating  in  a  dream  ; 
When  life's  shadow,  and  its  tear, 
Seem,  like  morning  mist, 
Heavenward  to  disappear, 
By  the  sunbeam  kissed. 


REVERIES.  225 


We  hear  joyous,  gladsome  voices 

Echoing  all  day  long ; 
And  the  wildered  sense  rejoices 
In  their  happy  song. 
Time's  sad  reapers,  one  by  one, 

With  their  emblems  hoary, 
Whisper,  as  each  passes  on, 
Some  romantic  story. 


Words  are  senseless  then.     The  Muse, 

Wrapt  in  deep  devotion, 
Her  poetic  power  doth  lose 
In  her  wild  emotion. 

Thoughts  arise  too  clear  for  words, 

To  the  spirit  given. 
Music  breathes,  whose  sister  chords 
Have  their  place  in  heaven. 

15 


226  REVERIES. 


There  's  a  language  holier  far 

Than  was  ever  spoken, 
When  the  rays  from  some  pure  star, 

Through  the  leaves  in-broken, 
Tell  us  of  that  fairer  clime 

Past  the  blue  depth  o'er  us, 
Where  the  flower-wreathed  wheels  of  Time 

Move  to  angel  chorus  ! 


Come  to  me,  sweet  reveries ! 

Come,  at  day's  decline, 
When  all  sordid  feeling  sleeps 

In  this  heart  of  mine. 
Let  the  wings  of  your  impressions 

Fan  the  soul's  repose, 
As  the  west  wind  cools  and  freshens 

The  exhausted  rose. 


227 


"GOD  SAVE   THE  COMMONWEALTH!" 

No.  II. 

THE  half-grown  lawyer,  with  his  mind  as  green 

As  that  big  satchel,  borne  each  weary  /day 
O'er  dusty  pavement,  —  oftentimes,  I  ween, 

Containing  luncheon  purchased  on  the  way ; 
(More  easy  of  digestion,  to  the  swain, 

Of  mental  food  or  physical,  the  latter ; 
His  stomach  is  more  active  than  his  brain, 

The    use    of  one    makes    leaner,  't   other 
fatter ;)  — 


228          "  GOD    SAVE    THE    COMMONWEALTH  !  " 

The  half-grown  lawyer,  with  his  thoughts  as 

crude, 

As  rough  and  corky,  as  a  turnip  raw, 
Doth  prate,  in  awful  mdjesty  of  mood, 

About  the  length  and  breadth  and  depth  of 

law. 

"  Doubteth  the  ruling  of  the  learned  judge,"  — 

"  Taketh  exception  to  the  power  of  court,"  — 

Meets   a  grave   question   with   a   Free    Soil 

"Fudge!" 

And    boldly     says,     "  Commissioners    are 
bought ! " 

Not  yet  content,  he  wanders  forth  amain, 
A  roving  maniac;  innocent  and  weak, 

Too  frail  and  harmless  to  require  a  chain, 
Of  would-be  terribles  a  monstrous  freak ! 

Makes  any  statements,  heedless  of  the  fact,  — 
Strutting  and  fretting  like  a  jealous  rooster ; — 


"  GOD    SAVE    THE    COMMONWEALTH  !  "          229 

Defends  himself  before  he  is  attacked, 

And  all  to  astonish  the  quiet  town  of  Wor 
cester! 

Ignores  to-day  what  yesterday  he  said, 

(For  smouldering  now  are  all  his  brimstone 
fires,) 

Swearing,  by  all  the  hair  upon  his  head, 
"  That  the  reporters  are  a  pack  of  liars! " 

From  such  weak  slanderers,  crazy  or  in  health, 

It  needs  no  "  God"  to  save  the  Commonwealth ! 


230 


I  DREAMED  THAT  I  WAS  YOUNG  AGAIN ! 


I  DREAMED  that  I  was  young  again ! 

O  blissful  dream  !     The  world  before  me ! 
Once  more  to  tread  youth's  violet  plain, 
"Cupid"  and  "Psyche"  fluttering  o'er  me! 
,     Love  led  me  to  his  tempting  bowers, 
And,  pointing  with  his  arrow  back, 
Through  smiles  and  tears,  and  withered 

flowers, 

Which  overarched  life's  trodden  track, 
Says,  "  Whisper  me  what  you  will  do,  — 
Your  journey  bright  has  just  begun ; 


I  DREAMED  THAT  I  WAS  YOUNG  AGAIN  !    231 

Shall  you  the  selfsame  course  pursue  ? 
Will  your  heart  beat  as  it  hath  done  ?  " 

Then  (with  a  confidential  "  Harry ! 

I  think  I  've  heard  you  had  a  wife  ?") 
He  says,  "  Confess  now,  would  you  marry, 
Could  you  live  o'er  again  your  life  ?  " 
Assuming  now  a  look  demure, 

He  feigned  to  be  serenely  thinking 
(Although  I  heard  him  laugh,  I  'm  sure, 
And  once  or  twice  I  caught  him  wink 
ing-) 

He  bade  me  follow  to  a  fount, 

Wherein  was  silver  water  shining, 
Near  which,  upon  a  mossy  mount, 
Myriads  of  beauties  lay  reclining. 
When,  lo  !  as  in  a  mirror  bright, 

Upon  that  fount's  clear  surface  shone, 


232   I  DREAMED  THAT  I  WAS  YOUNG  AGAIN  ! 

The  ghosts,  in  robes  of  stainless  white, 
Of  my  flirtations.     Forty-one ! 

"  Be  quick !  "  says  Love,  "  I  may  not  stay 

While  logically  you  determine. 
I  've  many  calls  to  make  to-day  ; 
You  're  but  to  answer  <  yea '  or  'nay,' 
I  wait  no  prosy  sermon." 

I  trembled.    In  succession  passed  — 

O  sweet  review !  —  each  lovely  face, 
And  still  the  loveliest  the  last ; 

All  wore  that  unpretending  grace 
Of  earlyhood.     So  brightly  gleamed 

Visions  of  darlings  past  away, 
That,  by  some  fairy  wand,  I  seemed 
Transformed  into  a  live^  bouquet ! 

O,  who  could  long  continue  sane, 
With  such  a  witching  pageantry 


I  DREAMED  THAT  I  WAS  YOUNG  AGAIN  !   233 

Dancing  the  "  Redowa"  in  his  brain! 

Alas !  it  proved  too  much  for  me. 
Remembering  that  Cupid  waited, 

I  stole  a  glance  at  every  one, 
Stammered,  and  blushed,  and  hesitated. 

"  Dear  Love!"  said  I.  Echo,  "  He  's  gone!" 

Then  from  those  angels,  at  the  font, 

Came  such  provoking  peals  of  laughter, 

And  merry  shouts,  depend  upon  Jt, 
I  '11  never  dream  of  youth  hereafter. 


234 


THE    SEWING-BIRD    TO   HIS    TYRANT. 


WORK  away !  work  away  ! 

Never  ceasing,  never  idle ; 
Are  you  working,  lady  gay, 

For  some  fairy's  gaudy  bridal  ? 

I  delight  to  see  you  work, 

And  would  never  more  complain, 
But  for  that  confounded  jerk,  — 

Heavens!  there  it  comes  again! 


THE    SEWING-BIRD   TO    HIS    TYRANT.  235 

Here  I  sit,  from  day  to  day. 

With  my  useless  wings  outspread, 

Holding  your  embroidery, 
Only  wishing  I  were  dead. 

Can't  you  leave  your  task  awhile? 
Toil  will  then  be  all  the  sweeter. 
Look  up!  long  enough  to  smile  ; 
'There  's  a  dear,  bewitching  creetur! 

I  should  like  to  sing  to  you, 

But  of  course  I  am  not  able, 
Fastened,  by  this  horrid  screw, 

To  your  little  table. 

Should  I  try  a  song  to  sing, 

It  might  pass  for  Greek  or  Latin. 

Would  you  think  of  warbling 

When  your  mouth  was  stuffed  with  satin? 


236  THE    SEWING-BIRD   TO    HIS    TYRANT. 

Cruel  tyrant!  work  away! 

Never  heed  your  bird's  complaint. 
What  care  you,  my  lady  gay, 

Though  I  pine,  and  droop,  and  faint. 

Not  a  drop  of  dew  or  food,  — 
Not  a  single  moment's  rest,  — 

In  one  place  for  ever  screwed, 
Am  I  not  unblest  ? 

Prithee,  leave  your  task  awhile  ! 

Toil  will  then  be  far  the  sweeter. 
Look  up !  long  enough  to  smile  ; 

There  >s  a  dear  —  despotic  creetur ! 


237 


PROGRESS.  — A  VISION. 


WE  sometimes  have  queer  visions.     A  quaint 
form 

Came  to  me  in  my  sleep ;  and  questioned 

thus :  — 
"  Know'st  thou  the  meaning  of  a  cycle?    'T  is 

A  method  in  one  course  continued  on, 
Until  the  selfsame  course  again  begins." 

A  quiet  revolution,  creeping  up 
So  silently,  with  noiseless,  dainty  steps, 

That  it  o'ertakes  us  ere  we  are  aware. 


238  PROGRESS.  A    VISION. 

In  fashion's  fripperies,  literature,  and  art, 

It  manifests  itself.     What  seemed  to  you, 
A   few  short   by-gone  years,   grotesque,  and 
"  gauche,"  — 

The  height  of  literary  Quakerdom, — 
Shall  be  the  commonly  accepted  style. 

The  time  is  coming,  —  nay,  already  come !  — 
When  genius  dare  not  lisp  in  common  sense ; 

When  mental  pickaxes  shall  be  required, 
To  dig  from  its  obscurity  the  thought 

Most  simple.     When  the  wildest  German 

"myth" 
(Ghost  of  a  night  of  boisterous  revelry) 

Shall    seem    a    fact    beside    our    modern 

«  myths  " ! 
The  author's  sole  endeavor  then  must  be 

To  veil  the  sense,  by  shuffling  the  words 
Into  chaotic  masses,  (as  we  give 

Children  a  box  of  ill-assorted  blocks, 


PROGRESS.  A   VISION.  239 

Without  a  map,  bidding  them  build  a  house!) 
Presenting  a  kaleidoscope  of  thoughts, 

Twined  in  the  most  unreadable  of  shapes  ; 
So  that  the  reader  who  may  comprehend 

Fairly  may  boast  that  he  is  author  too. 
Its  mystic  influence  shall  reach  the  schools, 

Where  now  the  child  says,  "  Two  and  two 

make  four." 
He  will  not  say  that  two  and  two  make  four, 

But  thus  :  "  Two  units,  junctually  combined, 
With  combined  units  junctually,  other  two, 

In  multiple  embrace  closely  cojunct, 
Cojunctly  form,  in  embrace  multiple, 

A  double  duplex,  —  or  a  four  times  one  !  " 
"  Horrors  ! "  said  I,  "  if  that 's  your  march  of 

mind, 

Genius  may  lead  the  van.     I  '11  stay  behind !  " 
I  woke.     My  youngest  boy  was  asking  me 
Some  questions  in  the  Double  Rule  of  Three  ! 


240 


SONNET. —  TO    ZEPHY&US. 


WEST- WIND,  —  the  tips  of  whose  soft  wings 

aerial 

Languidly  fan  the  drowsy  twilight  sea, 
Until,  awaking  from  its  dream  imperial, 

Dimpling,  it  breaks  into  an  ecstasy 
Of  sparkling  joy,  —  forth   from   thine   azure 

chamber, 

Lighted  by  Hesperus,  at  eve  thou  wingest, 
And,  throwing  over  thee  thy  veil  of  amber, 


SONNET. TO    ZEPHYRUS.  241 

Love's    language    to    the   waking   Wood- 

Nymphs  singest. 
Thy  lambent  pinions,  amorous  and  free, 

Clasp  the  slight  zone  of  the  unblushing  lass, 
Or  brush  her  dewy  lip.     All  welcome  tliee. 

The  modest  wild-flower  hiding  in  the  grass, 
The  way-side  rose,  and  the  proud  forest-tree, 

Exhale  sweet  benisons  whene'er  you  pass. 


16 


242 


THE    BIRTH    OF    MUSIC. 


TWILIGHT  nestles  in  Paradise.     Young  stars 
In  the  blue  depth  are  glistening.     Fragrant 

flowers, 
Which  through  the  rosy  day  had  bent  them 

down 

'Neath  the  warm  glances  of  the  ardent  sun, 
Retiring,  modest,  from  his  eager  gaze, 
Languidly  rouse ;  wooed  by  the  cool,  moist 

breath 


I 
THE    BIRTH    OF    MUSIC.  243 


Of  Zephyrus.     The  tops  of  the  tall  trees 
Still  hold  the  memory  of  receding  light ; 
While  the  fair  landscape  mellows  into  shade. 
Twilight  in  Eden !  in  its  perfectness, 
Inclosing  Nature  in  a  sainted  dream, 
Ere  the  transgression  dark  had  intervened, 
'Twixt  man  and  immortality  on  earth. 
Forth  from  her  bower   luxurious,  beauteous 

Eve, 

Chaste,  uncontaminate,  as  when  the  smile 
Of  God  first  charmed  her  into  beauty,  roved 
Among  those  gardens  of  perennial  bloom, 
Inhaling  their  sweet  being.     Delicate, 
As  holiest  breath  from  new-created  angel,  came 
The  whisper  of  the  gentle  wind  to  her. 
How  fair  earth  must  have  been !    How  passing 

fair, 
Trod    by    seraphic    natures   only  !     As    she 

roved, 


244  THE    BIRTH    OF    MUSIC. 

She  heard  low  murmurings ;  delicious  tones, 
Inwoven  with  the  soft,  voluptuous  breeze ; 
Filling  her  soul  with  unknown  ecstasy. 
Entranced,  she  listened.     Still,  out-murmuring 

low, 

Came  wafted  to  her,  on  the  scented  air, 
Those  sounds  mysterious.     'T  was  a  little  band 
Of  angels,  uttering  their  evening  psalm,  — 
Their  twilight  orison.     Then  questioned  Eve, 
Of  her  pure   soul,  if  the  same  power  were 

given 

To  her  as  to  those  angels  whispering  there? 
Lifting  her  untried  voice,  to  imitate 
Those  heavenly  strains,  out-flowed  in  song, 
Echoing  amid  those  starlit  bowers,  the  first 
Delicious  tones  of  new-born  Harmony. 
Then  knelt  she  down;  and,  while  the  tears 

of  joy 
Still  sparkled  on  her  soft,  transparent  lid, 


THE    BIRTH    OF    MUSIC.  245 

Like  dew  upon  the  lily  of  the  vale, 
Her  soul,  responding  to  this  new  delight, 
In  strain  of  adoration  chanted  forth 
The  sweet  Te  Deum  of  her  gratitude. 


246 


"ERIN    GO    BKAGH!" 

MELODRAMATIC. 

BESIDE  a  pile  of  dust  and  chips, 
The  Sleeping  sawyer  lay; 

His  pipe  still  clinging  to  his  lips, 
That  short  brown  pipe  of  clay  ;  - 

His  shirt  unbuttoned  at  the  throat, 
His  hat  drawn  o'er  his  eyes  ; 

The  greasy  pocket  of  his  coat 
McAdamized  with  flies. 


"  ERIN    GO    BRAGH  !  "  247 

See  you  that  mouth's  convulsive  twitch? 

St.  Vitus  sends  a  smile ! 
He  dhrames  he  's  nestling  in  a  ditch, 

In  Imerald's  swate  isle. 

He  dhrames  he  's  wid  his  mother, 

In  the  swale  below  the  rig; 
Wid  one  arr'm  around  his  brother, 

And  one  around  the  pig ! 

O,  wake  him  not !     Let  him  enjoy 

That  vision  pure  and  sweet. 
The  soft,  black  mud  of  childhood 

Is  clinging  to  his  feet  I 

He  sees  all  he  left,  at  parting, 

(With  some  twelve  or  fifteen  more,) 

Scrabbling  for  the  cold  "purtatis" 
On  the  dear  old,  nasty  floor;  — 


248  "  ERIN    GO    BRAGH  !  " 

Sees  his  father,  lenient  Lictor, 

Quietly  enjoy  the  sight; 
And  applaud  the  laurelled  victor 

In  the  vegetable  fight ! 

*  *          '  *  * 

Now  he  lays  about  him  gayly, 

Battling  with  the  yielding  air, 
Whacking  with  ideal  shillelagh 

Many  a  skull  at  rustic  fair. 

Now  he  takes  a  short  vacation ;  — 
Let  the  fancied  conqueror  rest! 

See  the  well-earned  perspiration 
Trickle  down  his  heaving  breast ! 

Sudden  starting,  now  you  see  'm  stir ; 

Wakes  he  !  for  upon  the  road, 
Shouts  the  rough,  remorseless  teamster, 

«  Paddy !  here  >s  another  load  !  " 


"  ERIN    GO    BRAGH  !  "  249 


Harder  now  the  work  before  him  ;  — 
Memory  sad  is  working  too  : 

Erin's  sky  is  arching  o'er  him 

With  its  soft,  transparent  blue  ;  — 

Voices  sweet  as  flowing  waters, 
Though  untutored  by  the  school, 

Greetings  warm  from  those  wild  daughters 
Never  taught  to  love  by  rule. 

Trembles  in  his  eye  a  tear-drop ;  — 
Man  and  soul  have  met  in  strife. 

To  the  cold  world  't  is  a  mere  drop,  — 
'T  is  to  him  a  prayer  of  life ! 

Such  the  doom  of  dreamings  earthful ; 

When  most  bright  to  be  o'ercast ; 
Grave  or  gay,  sedate  or  mirthful, 
End  in  dust  and  tears  at  last. 


250 


SONNET.  —THOUGHT. 


ECHO  of  Silence !  whose  responsive  power 

All  can  appreciate,  and  yet  none  control ; 
Whose  coming  consecrates  the  lonely  hour, 

Making  a  Sabbath  of  the  pensive  sou);  — 
Voice  of  the  Spirit !  at  whose  mild  decree, 

From  mental  chambers  rousing  the  ideal, 
The  sentient  wanders  through  infinity, 

Divested  of  the  sordid  and  the  real ;  — 
Mysterious  gift !  to  whose  vast  power  we  owe 


SONNET. THOUGHT.  251 

All  of  life's  essence ;  unto  whom  is  given 
To  lift  us  from  our  instincts  here  below, 

And  sublimate  us  for  our  flight  to  heaven ;  — 
My  mind  out-lead  from  unreflecting  night, 

To  thy  pure  sphere  of  intellectual  light ! 


252 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 


A  HAPPY  morn  to  thee !     I  know 

Thou  canst  not  comprehend 
This  benison  I  send  to  thee, 

My  joyous  little  friend  ! 
Yet  my  fond  heart  to  thee  would  speak 

The  impulse  which  it  feels, 
For  Time  has  now  another  year 

Entangled  in  his  wheels. 


TO    MY    DAUGHTER    ON    HER    BIRTHDAY.         253 

Your  tiny  feet  have  just  essayed 

A  self-dependent  walk, 
And  mother  says  that  you  have  made 

Your  first  attempt  at  talk. 
What  care  we,  though  the  tempest  blow, 

Or  winter's  mantle  fall  ? 
Thy  smile  is  mightier  than  the  blast,  — 

'T  is  summer  in  our  hall ! 


Yet  there  intrudeth  on  my  joy 

A  shadow  even  now ; 
Death  claims  thee,  darling,  as  his  own. 

Beneath  that  sunny  brow, 
By  Heaven's  kindly  veil  concealed, 

Sleeps  thy  mysterious  fate  : 
Through  God's  great  mercy  unrevealed, 

Or  life  were  desolate. 


254         TO    MY   DAUGHTER    ON    HER   BIRTHDAY. 

Two  of  life's  fleeting  years,  dear  girl, 

Two  of  thy  years,  have  flown ; 
And  rapidly,  though  silently, 

Another  floweth  on. 
On  !  rapidly,  though  silently, 

Each  coming  year  shall  pass, 
Till  thou  art  forced  to  mark,  as  I, 

The  ebbings  of  the  glass. 


My  darling  February  Rose  ! 

Lifting  thy  fragile  head 
Above  the  winter's  storms  and  snows, 

While  other  flowers  lie  dead, — 
God  keep  thee  in  thine  innocence! 

When  thy  last  year  has  flown, 
May  the  recording  angel  breathe 

Thy  name  before  His  throne. 


255 


SONNET  TO  THE   MOON. 


INCONSTANT  Luna !  pale  night-walker !  whence 

is, 

Concerning  thee,  this  sentimental  bluster? 
Thou  light-bestower  under  false  pretences  ! 
The  dull  earth  polishing  with  borrowed  lustre; 
Nocturnal  gambler!  fortune's  fickle  daughter! 
Hater  of  sunshine!  Ruminated  owl.! 
Reduced,  at  intervals,  to  thy  last  quarter, 
For  ever  doomed  with  Erebus  to  prowl ! 


256  SONNET    TO    THE    MOON. 

Dyspeptic  poets  call  thee  Lover's  lamp, 
Thy  small  thin  crescent  Cupid's  golden  bark ; 
I  here  baptize  thee  Lantern  of  the  Scamp! 
Who  waits, like  thee,  for  evening  shadows  dark, 
Stealthily  creepeth  through  the  silent  night, 
And  sneaketh  home  at  the  approach  of  light ! 


257 


THE    TRUE    CREED. 


LET  your  life  be  sordid,  real ; 

Count  your  loftier  thoughts  as  dreams ; 

Listen  not  to  the  ideal ; 

Go  for  't  is,  and  not  for  seems. 

Stoop  not  on  your  march  sublime, 
The  wild-flower  to  cull,  which  springs 
In  the  dusty  road  of  Time ; 

Scorn  such  sentimental  things  ! 
17 


258  THE    TRUE    CREED. 

O'er  the  masses  tramp  and  travel ; 
To  your  human  nature  yield  ; 
Scruples  are  but  sand  and  gravel, 
Choking  up  ambition's  field. 

Thus  advancing,  head  erect, 

Let  your  mission  be  to  forage ; 

If  you  !re  very  circumspect, 

You  may  steal  your  neighbor's  porridge. 

Let  your  motto  be  «  Suspicion  "  ! 
Lacking  this,  all  things  are  lacked. 
Honesty  is  mere  tradition, 
Number  one  the  only  fact. 

• 

Ketrospection  leave  behind ; 
Thank  the  world  for  what  it  is. 
Regrets  bu£  your  freedom  bind ; 
They  are  self-made  miseries^ 


THE    TRUE    CREED.  259 

Feeling  must  be  petrified  ; 
Heart  must  be  inclosed  in  tin  ; 
Mammon  must  be  glorified, 
Conscience  hammered  very  thin. 

Cheat!  the  six  days  of  the  week ; 
"  Settle  up,"  one  day  in  seven  ; 

Should  you  hear  your  axles  squeak, 

• 

Grease  with  hypocritic  leaven. 

Never  shirk  a  contribution  ; 
Take  a  new  bill,  which  will  rattle : 
Very  little  absolution 
Arms  you  to  renew  the  battle. 

i 

Do  it!  lest  the  warden  carp  : 
Recollect  there  's  but  one  Sunday 
In  the  week,  and  if  you  're  sharp, 
You  can  "make  it  up"  on  Monday. 


260  THE    TRUE    CREED. 

With  your  bank-book  for  your  pope, 
For  your  ritual  the  stocks, 
Undisturbed  shall  be  your  hope ; 
It  is  founded  upon  "rocks"! 


261 


A    THOUGHT    OR    TWO. 


As  thirsty  travellers,  let  us  stoop  and  drink 
Refreshing   draught  from  Nature's   road-side 

lymph, 

With  varied  flowers  springing  at  the  brink ; 
Blessing,  believingly,  the  unseen  Nymph, 

Whose  mystic  wand,  by  God's  direction,  guides 
The  stream  transparent  thro'  its  devious  flow, 
From  the  pure  fountain,  on  the  mountain-sides, 
Into  its  vase  of  emerald  below. 


262  A   THOUGHT    OR   TWO. 

'T  is  pleasant,  thus  along  life's  way-side  rest 
ing, 

Our  dusty  banner  for  a  moment  furled, 
To  listen  to  the  inner  voice  protesting 
Against  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  world. 

Useful  it  is  to  stop  our  bark  a  moment, 
Shaking  the  water  from  the  dripping  oar; 
And,  noiseless  drifting,  listen  to  the  comment 
Of  worldlings  working  on  the  busy  shore. 

We  shall  be  purer  when  we  thus  have  hearkened 
Unto  their  senseless  strivings.  Then  the  soul 
Lighteth  her  lamp  in  chambers  cold  and 

darkened  ;   x 
Then  dare  we  question  of  the  earth  control. 

Then  shall  we  turn  the  streamlet  from  the  mill, 
Whose  ceaseless  din  doth  weary  and  annoy  us; 


A   THOUGHT    OR    TWO.  263 

Bidding  its  stony,  gritty  pulse  be  still, 
While  the  freed  stream  goes  on  its  mission 
joyous. 

Like  to  a  blessed  revelation  flowing, 

The  unprisoned  stream  shall  greet  the  grateful 

banks, 

Reviving  all  within  its  influence  growing, 
Which,  waking,  nod,  and  wave  their  scented 

thanks. 

If  he  who  makes  one  blade  of  grass  to  grow, 
Which  grew  not  else,  not  all  in  vain  hath  striven, 
O  happier  he  who,  in  this  vale  of  woe, 
Hath  nurtured  flowers  which  only  bloom  in 
heaven. 


264 


"I    STILL    LIVE!" 


"  I  STILL  live !  "    Let  the  worldling,  invidious, 

interpret 
Those  words  of  the  Statesman,  and  warp  as 

he  will ; 
Let  him  question  the  motive,  and  carp  at  the 

meaning, 
The  same  innate  beauty  investeth  them  still. 

How  simple  their  meaning  when   fairly  con 
sidered, 
How  touching  and  tender,  how  apt  to  the  time ! 


"i  STILL  LIVE!"  265 

To  those  who  were  lingering  mournfully  near 

him 
Their  very  simplicity  stamps  them  sublime ! 

No  hope  for  this  earth  to  those  words  is  imputed, 
No  wish  ever  more  life's  dull  march  to  resume ; 
His  labors  are  finished;  his  pilgrimage  over ; 
No  dread  of  the  future,  no  fear  of  the  tomb. 

How  sadly  they  tolled  on  the  ear  of  the  listener! 
How  gently  they  spoke  of  the  earnest,  deep  love, 
Which  cherished  the  dear  ones  of  earth  while 

he  lingered, 
Yet  looked  to  a  holier  reunion  above ! 

No  vision  is  here  of  unsated  ambition, 
Which  questions  of  fate  the  control  to  the  last; 
No  wish  the  arena  of  life  to  re-enter ; 
But  this  prayerful  idea,  ere  the  spirit  had  past. 


266  "  I    STILL    LIVE  !  " 

"  I  still  live! "     God  hath  spared  me  once  more 

in  his  mercy, 

To  take  a  farewell  of  earth's  vanishing  things ; 
To  grasp  once  again  the  warm  hands  of  my 

kindred, 
Ere  the  angel  of  death  folds  me  under  his 

wings,    tl: 

"  I  still  live  " !    God  be  thanked  for  his  manifold 

bounties ! 
"  The  cattle  and  sheep,  drive  them  up  to  the 

door";* 
I  would  take  one  last  look  at  their  innocent 

faces, 
Would  list  to  their  lowing  and  bleating  once 

more. 

*  One  of  the  last  requests  of  the  late  Daniel  Webster. 


I    STILL    LIVE  !  "  267 


I  see,  for  the  last  time,  God's  smile  in  the 

sunshine ; 
His  warning  I  hear  in  the   Autnmn  wind's 

moan. 

My  Summer  is  over,  my  harvest  is  ready ; 
The  cold  Earth  is  silently  waiting  her  own. 

"I  still  live!"     Let  the  worldling,  invidious, 

interpret 
Those  words  of  the  Statesman,  and  warp  as 

he  will ; 
Let  him  question  the  motive,  and  carp  at  the 

meaning, 
The  same  innate  beauty  investeth  them  still. 


268 


VALE, 


GOOD  by,!  my  frail,  ideal  craft, 
Unfurl  and  trim  your  sail ! 
Be  grateful  for  the  Summer  breeze,  — 
Be  ready  for  the  gale! 

Farewell!  farewell!  the  anchor 's  weighed ; 
I  've  launched  you  from  the  shore, 
And  from  my  cozy  fireside  nook, 
Shall  watch  your  voyage  o'er 


VALE.  269 

The  ocean  of  your  doubtful  fate. 
For  Pilot  charter  Hope  ! 
There  's  no  insurance  on  your  freight, 
Nor  on  the  tiniest  rope. 

Your  first-mate,  Courage,  stout  and  stanch, 

Will  prove  as  true  as  steel! 

He  stood  godfather  at  the  launch, 

And  he  baptized  the  keel  1 

Trust  in  him.     When  the  sky  's  o'ercast, 
When  fainting  spirits  fail,    / 
He  '11  "  nail  your  colors  to  the  mast," 
Greeting  the  adverse  gale ! 

Rest  on  him  with  a  firm  belief, 
When  storm  and  tempest  frown. 
You  have  no  heavy  sails  to  reef, 
And  you  're  too  light  to  drown. 


270  VALE. 

Then  deprecate  no  pirate's  lance, 
Sail  boldly  from  the  shore ; 
Though  baffled  once,  again  advance ; 
Challenge  the  wave  once  more. 


THE    END. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'66(G5530s4)458 


N°  471021 


PS2779 
Sargent,  H.J.  S13 

Feathers  from  a  moulting  F4 
muse. 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


